


Indelible (Let me be your guardian, angel)

by Jyuu_no_Hana



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anthony J Crowley is a fumbling ball of goo, Book Shop owner Aziraphale, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley might seem overly infatuated to Aziraphale's fingernails and toes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hard of hearing Aziraphale, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Fanart, Is mostly fun and fluff but I have to make it hurt too, Love at First Sight, M/M, Multi, My first published fic so bear with me, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past and hurt, Smitten, Sweet bastard Aziraphale, Tattoo Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Whipped, and we love him for it, crowley is soft, hearing impairment, learning to love yourself, shameless poetry and love declarations, that's because he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jyuu_no_Hana/pseuds/Jyuu_no_Hana
Summary: “Hullo?” He calls out. “Mr. Fell?” Waits a beat- no answer. “Mr. Fell?” He tries again- louder.In the background a faint buzzing tune coming from inside. Alright. The artist rationalizes.Alright.He’s probably in there somewhere.Probably.Crowley takes a look at the box of still warm delicacies and considering leaving it by the door, with a note. Yeah, a note should be- than he stops.What if something happened...? What if somethingbadhappened?No. No, of course he’s alright. Of course.Dark lensed covered eyes stare down at shoes. His shoes stare back. He’s just being paranoid.But.What if.His feet shift uncomfortably. Crowley fidgets.He looks at the shop. Closes his eyes. Right. Fists clench.Right.Crowley has just opened his Tattoo parlour in Soho, and goes on a (forced) quest to 'meet the community' as Anathema likes to phrase it. He wasn't expecting to tumble down this hard, and he didn't exactly fall in love but dropped down on a million-years-dive into it. If you asked though, he would say he sauntered down onto plush thighs and a pool of baby blue.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 38
Kudos: 96





	1. Some good comes out of bad ideas

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting in my drafts for months. This is supposed to be light and indulgent fluff with a bit of angst sprinkled on top. Based on a crazy idea I had after swooning over fanart and letting my mind run crazy over it. Here goes the [ link to the original post ](https://jyuunohana.tumblr.com/post/186579642644/thatmightyheart-anathema-snakebites-crowley). I LOVE THEIR ART. Amazing merch too, if you wanna check it out!
> 
> I'm posting this so I can get the guts to finish it.  
> Fingers crossed.

It has been a couple challenging weeks- getting the shop proper and functioning to his standards had taken a lot of work- hell, halfway through the whole thing his days where so filled with dust and noise he thought he would never get rid of it all- that is, without mentioning how all that chalk was giving him a nasty allergy reaction.

Crowley made the mistake of taking his glasses off _once_ while overseeing some mishap with the back sink installation and his eyes had felt like they would straight up start _leaking blood_ for days.

Being fed up with all the redecorating bullshit and grateful it had finally come to a bloody end, Crowley couldn’t be more exhausted- and fucking proud of the results. 

Sleek dark marble- shiny spotless new equipment- he had put his hard earned (ink and blood stained) money on the shop, and he would be damned if he wouldn’t get the place looking _exactly_ as he wanted it.

The modern design, the ‘dark-but-exotic’ aesthetic, the careless-looking-but-consciously-planned spots of greenery. Anathema wouldn’t shut up on how much it resembled his Mayfair apartment but to be fair, between both of them he was the one with all the good taste and she knew it. 

Crowley was just wrapping up warning his plants about the consequences of not putting the necessary amount of effort ‘ _-and you all know better than disappointing me, remember what happened to the last one that tried to play smart? Was it worth it huh?! Was it??!’_ that he didn’t even noticed when company arrived. 

“Honestly, do you _really_ need to do this? Even here?”

Crowley jumped. Except he didn’t -his plants where right there and no way in hell he was going to show weakness in front of them- so he didn’t startle as much as composedly straightened himself up in a well-practiced and stylishly manner. Or so he would like to believe. 

Whatever helps him sleep better at night.

Anathema, the always too perceptive witch, of course, was not fooled.

“I told you we needed to put a bell on the door, it's only going to keep happening.” The dark haired huffed. Head shaking in a lazy exasperated motion. “Not too late to put one up.” 

“Bells are ol’ annoying things. I ain’t dealing with them. Period.” No inanimate object ruins a Queen vibe more than a blasted chiming bell. 

“Whatever you say, Boss.” 

Crowley gives her a sideways look. Anathema just seem to love sneaking the nickname in even since they were equally lowly underpaid coworkers at the first shoddy tattoo parlor they worked together. He might have made a joke about ‘making that a real title’ once and she might have jokingly been too agreeable to the idea and then... well. 

A few years later, here they are.

“Could you just not? We co-own the damned place.” 

“Doesn’t change the fact that you are the Boss-” She smirks “-The Sadist Plant Boss, The Sunglasses All Year Round Drama Boss, The insufferable Too Cool to be You Boss, The-” 

Crowley groans.

“-I Woke Up Smoking Hot Like This Boss, The Ferocious Golden Girls Fan Boss, The I Did Definitely Not Cry When I Saw That Puppy- 

“I didn’t! I-” Voice raising a few pitches “It wass! The pollen! You know I have sensitive eyes!”

“-Jeans Tighter than Your Ass Could Ever Be B-” 

“Hey! T-That’s!-!” There was a flash of distressed red as a spluttering Crowley tried to defend his honor- and not exactly succeeding.

All that was heard was a whistling sound, like a tea kettle going off.

Anathema couldn’t help but crack up giggling. Anthony was just too easy to rile up, no matter the kind of Leather clad Do-Not-Approach façade he tried to portrait, he was, at heart, a mess of fumbling dorkness. 

“Its fine Anthony, everyone else still thinks you’re a tall dark and handsome stud. Your secret is safe with me,” She said with a grin. “Witch promise."

Crowley adjusted his glasses back to where they had glided to the tip of his bony nose, cheeks glowing an endearing shade of pink. On a nearby pot, a few leaves shook with what could possibly be taken as _mirth._

And that won’t do will it.

Eager to change topics, eyes a distinctive shade of amber quickly took on a displeased glint and turned to latch right onto the offender. “What wasss that?!” He rasped- words carrying enough venom to put down a horse in under a minute. All the plants held their breaths, petrified. In a more-than-expected graceful move a snake skin shoe made a bee line to the ( _hand painted ceramic_ , mind you) vase the reproachable plant resided, shaking the insulting Bird of Paradise with vengeance. It shrieked in fright. 

“Got a death wish?! Huh?!” He stomped the vase again. The leaves _wailed._ “Got. A. BLOODY. DEATH. WISH?” Crowley was driving the point by driving his feet back and forth onto the vase. Minimalistic cracks forming in the ceramic’s surface, paint peeling off its abused host. 

The Bird of Paradise, if equipped with the right parts would be soiling it’s trousers by now. “I CAN SHOW YOU WHAT DEATH LOOKS LIKE!” 

Anathema had been exposed to Anthony’s intimidation tactics more times than she would have liked over the years of their friendship and still he somehow managed to up the game every chance he got. She was sure it was some kind of art on it’s own. He should have pursued an acting career, he would be brilliant. 

“Give those poor things a break.” 

“You just can’t trust those suckers to not take any chance to slack off.” The red haired sneered. Pointer finger jabbing accusingly at the plant. “If you don’t keep them in check they lose respect and start to rebel and I do not tolerate revolutions. Not on my watch!” 

The ink witch gaped. An exasperated huff leaving her lungs. _Seriously?_ They had gone through this already. 

“Are you really still bitter because of Marie-”

“ _Sssshhh.”_ Crowley interrupts her with a hiss. _God, why_. 

“We don’t talk about _-her-”_ and he says it like the word tastes _foul_. “-she’s banned mentioning- She’s banned mentioning _anywhere_ in my presence.” He spats. Focus quickly going back to the plants, gaze scanning the room, instinctively demanding their undivided attention. “I don’t forgive insubordination- do you hear me?! I **_DO NOT_** _FORGIVE!”_

At this point there is not much to do but block his antics out and set up for work.

Anathema does just that. 

Anthony might hold at least a bit of resentment towards her for that particular dark stain on his otherwise immaculate reign of terror- it was partly her fault for underestimating how anything he puts his hands on could suck up his flair for the dramatics. 

Making the mistake to ask Anthony to take care of her floppy solitaire Fly Trap for a few days- the grumpy Tattoo artist was all in for a chance to ‘ _show her how he could drill some improvement_ ’ on the thing. She barely landed from her flight back a week later to have a disgruntled looking Crowley handing the small pot back to her in the _middle of the fucking airport_ with a curse sounding ‘ _this_ _lil_ _shit_ _i_ _s_ ** _not_** _welcomed back!’_ as if it had somehow offended his whole family. 

He stormed off in a zit only to come back minutes later and give her a lift home, albeit sulkily. She had made a point not to ask for details. 

In all fairness he definitely doesn’t need more openings to act like a drama queen. God knows _a little goes a long way_ with Crowley. 

Finishing checking that the front counter was stocked up with all the necessary paperwork forms they might need (she has a piercing appointment at ten and a first tattoo design consultation at noon and for all that is sacred she doesn’t get how no one really understand how important it is to have things written down and signed when working in this kind of business- people love to change their fucking minds let me tell you) she arranges them in neat piles and is in the middle of scavenging a drawer for some pens when she deems safe enough to re-attempt conversation.

“So, how was it with the neighbors by the way? Was everything cool with them or...?” 

Anthony, that was still quite involved in whispering threats to the same poor plant from before, interrupts his scolding in favor of looking at her and frowning. “What’s tha’ about neighbors?” 

Anathema’s movements slow down. Her expression morphing from friendly inquiry to a wary reprimanding scowl.

“You didn’t pay them a visit did you? Not even _once_ right?” Her tone is cold, more accusing than questioning. Like a parent that already knows what the heck their children where up to but wants to hear them say it out loud anyways. 

Crowley doesn’t need to do anything but grimace to give her his answer. 

“Er…” 

Exasperated hands reach up to the sky- she would have flipped a table if there was any nearby. 

“I bloody told you we needed to start things properly! We just spent _two goddamned weeks_ knocking down walls and disrupting their peace! We are opening a new shop _today_ and **_you haven’t even greeted or introduced yourself_ ** to the community!”

Someone give her patience.

“Rude Anthony, _extremely rude!”_

“It skipped my mind!” It comes out like a squeal. Mind running for an explanation even though is a lost cause- nothing he says will save him from his friend’s wrath. “You know I have shitty memory, and I- I was going to do it but then we had that problem with the ink supplier and I-” 

A perfectly inked hand shots down and stops his rambling. It moves slowly to muffle a few expletives before falling to rest on the counter. Such a beautifully shiny stone. Her inked fingers stroke the surface in calm slow circles. Crowley waits. Anathema lets out a tired, resigned breath. She shouldn’t be surprised, really. 

“I don’t care. You are fixing this and you are fixing it now.” She fumbles to get her phone out of her pocket, checking the time. Less than half an hour before they have to open. Tsk. “You’re getting out and buying some peace offerings, I’ll give Newt a call and open up the shop myself while you go talk to them- no, no just shut it.” Crowley’s mouth hanging open for a moment before reluctantly closing, effectively chastised. “Newt can operate just fine on pen and paper- Just go and don’t come back before you’re done salvaging whatever reputation we haven’t managed to ruin.” 

Crowley stars to mumble how much he thinks this ‘socializing with your neighbors’ is pure and utter shit- Anathema gives him a look- and he promptly shuts it and departs the shop in a flash. 

One should know to choose their battles. 

Outside, he got his hand poised to yank on the Bentley’s door – black nail polish glinting in the sunshine- before remembering his keys are _still in his jacket_ , _inside the shop_. He entertains the thought of coming inside to grab them- sneaks a glance back and finds a pair of dark eyes glaring at him from the glass window _‘Now_ ' she mouths- and his legs have him crossing the street so fast he questions for the second time in a span of minutes if they haven’t got a will of their own. 

Out of reach of surprise attacks from his furious colleague, Crowley pats his back pocket and instinctively sends God a grateful thumbs up when he finds his wallet securely tucked into it. Well, more like _squeezed_ to death between fabric. Not much someone can fit in those sleek models besides a couple cards and an ID anyways. There is a reason why he never carries cash anymore. He hums. 

What one doesn’t sacrifice for aesthetics. 

Crowley runs a quick mental checkup, rolls up the sleeves of the dark gray jumper, ruffles a hand through his shoulder length hair to make sure is fashionably messy, glasses gleaming, his jeans as snug as can be. 

He catches his reflection on the glass display of a century old apothecary, and nods. 

Yep. Worth it. 

He got no phone (ugh, torture him slowly why don’t you) but he knows _Catherine’s_ is just on the next block over (that old lady _knows_ how to grow her flowers- and it _fucking shows_ ) and right next to it that French patisserie with decadent pastries that Anathema enjoys so much- Crowley is not good with people but he’s _pretty sure_ there is an implicit rule among humans where you never can go wrong with chocolate croissants- and it’s still early enough for them to have some fresh ones still available. 

Sounds like a plan. 

He walks on, hands inside pockets (well at least what he can fit on them) and legs gliding- _he was a lanky teenager alright, he had to find a way to make it work and he did so shut up_ \- before risking another look back at his shop. From the distance it looks… good. To be honest, the building hosted all qualms of _questionable businesses_ run by Jezebel for over thirty years _._ If said neighbors didn’t have any problems with her _trade_ Crowley can’t see why they would be any bit appalled by his. 

But then again- Jezebel was a woman full of tricks under her sleeves. 

Indelible – _yes, he choose the name, he's really fond of it_ \- was designed to carry with just enough of that dark-punk twist all Tattoo shops are guaranteed to have (don’t ask him why) for it to look fashionable, modern and professional- and Crowley spent good money renovating the whole thing to achieve that. 

Every little detail the result of sleepless nights planning, hours and hours of work and dedication -and if he’s being honest- a lot of _fucking luck_ (He still can’t believe that Jezebel managed to get that old wolf Shadwell to retire with her somewhere quiet _and_ offered him the _sweetest deal_ on her shop. Questionable practices be damned, bless that woman). He coughs and shakes inexistent dust off his shoulder. One should not question the weird way life works. 

He still does it though. Quite often. 

The next-door pub has seen some of him a couple times already. It carries that 'old Soho' vibe, and like most of the surrounding establishments it has been there for not least than half a century. It has style, regular patrons and most importantly, sells the _good stuff_. Convenient having a source of alcohol so close by, really. Delightfully convenient. 

Only downside he can think of is the possible flood of ‘Drunk and Dumb’ Tattoo requests they could be getting. Anathema will take great pleasure on the weekend flow of unreasonable barely-legal college students eager for a night of bad decisions and a permanent reminder of their stupidity etched to their flesh. 

Well, if one is out to get pissed they know the risk they’re taking, Crowley believes. 

He’s grown to learn Drinking and tattooing are activities better enjoyed separately. Sometimes knowledge has a price. He grimaces. A particular memory springing forth. 

Yep. Shouldn’t be thinking ‘bout that. Change of scenario- Crowley turns to stare at the next shop and blinks. And blinks. 

And stares. 

And chuckles. 

The next building is… such an opposing sight from his Tattoo parlor that boards on comical. What was that one again? An antique shop? A bookshop? Hell, it’s so pastel. The clear, neutral tones make _Indelible_ stand out like a black sheep outta crop of white sheep. 

Wind flows by twisting a few strands of red air. Well, that will surely help to catch people’s attention- and Crowley won’t complain about that. 

He will just need to warm up to whoever old soul runs the antiquary. Who knows, they might even get along. 

Shrugging, he gets back to the task. Should get going before those pastries are sold out- he contemplates getting Anathema a peace offering too while he’s at it. 

\--- 

Well, maybe Anathema wasn’t that wrong about the whole greeting the neighbors’ thing. He might even risk saying it was actually _a_ _good idea_. 

The family that owns the Pub was welcoming enough. Noted, the young bartender did give him the suspicious look while he tried to talk him into calling management- Crowley was only saved the awkwardness by said bartender’s wife’s squeal of delight when presented the exquisite box of pastries and flowers, promptly warming up to him- followed by good old Mrs. Marlow- _'please call me Helena, lad’_ that seemed touched enough by the gesture to invite him and Anathema for a drink after work _‘on us, take it as a treat to celebrate the inauguration, if you will’_ and Crowley is proud enough to announce he managed to be acceptably polite throughout the conversation. 

The wife, young Mrs. Galahel _‘Just Anna is fine’_ was enchanted by Crowley’s snake bite piercings, and said so the moment the opportunity presented itself. “Your earrings are lovely as well.” She added while he certainty _did not_ fight down a blush. 

“Well, I should probably be going- still got to drop this by the next shop before going back to work.” He indicated the second box of finely wrapped goods. 

“Oh yes! Yes, of course.” Said Anna while escorting him to the entrance. “I can assure you Mr. Fell will be delighted.” Her small smile accentuated by the forming dimples of her cheeks. “He does love to indulge.” They parted with a wave and a promise to chat more later. 

Feeling quite reassured by the success of his first attempt at ‘connecting with the community', Crowley quickly crossed through his shop – chancing a quick look to confirm that yes, Newt was really there -looking completely out of place behind the counter, hands clutching a notebook and not anywhere near the laptop, sitting unmoved where he left it that morning- and stopped right in front of the pastel shop. 

There is a neat _Established 1800_ engraved in the building’s façade, each letter carved into the wood and filled a rich gold color. ‘ _Not that we needed the reminder_ ’ Crowley muses. The paint job classic enough to be modest and still scream _Soho_ in a way no one could deny its place among the rest. At least the paint wasn’t peeling off the walls and the wood work- thin freckled fingers skim the gleaming surface _(yes, a generous coating of varnish on those_ )- seemed well cared for. He’s seen worse. 

Up the ramp he stops by the entrance. On eye level a coppery metal slate was carefully screwed to the door. ‘ _A. Z. Fell & Co_. _Antiquarian and Unusual Books’_ it read. _Closed._ Said the sign hanging right underneath. A faint humming played in the base of his throat- the colorful serpent inked to his chest gently vibrating with it. 

He checks his watch: 10:14am. Searches around for an opening hours sign- Finds nothing. 

Stepping back to the door he knoc- and just like that, at the slightest touch, it swings open quite a bit, the bell above it ringing in response. 

Unlocked. Gosh, old people have _no_ self-preservation. 

“Hullo?” He calls out. “Mr. Fell?” Waits a beat- no answer.

Right.

“Mr. Fell?” He tries again- louder. In the background a faint buzzing tune coming from inside. Alright. The artist rationalizes. _Alright._

 _He’s probably in there somewhere_.

Probably.

Crowley takes a look at the box of still warm delicacies and considering leaving it by the door, with a note. Yeah, a note should be- than he stops. 

What if, something happened...? _What if_ something _bad_ happened? 

I mean, he’s an old man, probably living alone- No. No, of course he’s alright.

Dark lensed covered eyes stare down at shoes. His shoes stare back.

He’s just being paranoid. 

But. What if. His feet shift uncomfortably. Crowley fidgets. 

He looks at the shop. Looks at the pastry box. Stares at his shoes -they stare back- leather shinning with apprehension. He looks back up. Closes his eyes. Right. Fists clench.

 _Right_. 

A long breath and a sigh later, _the least I can do is check._ He muses. _A quick thing, just to be sure._

Yeah, just to be sure. 

A tap to the door sends it swinging all the way to the wall. He steps in and whistles. Yeah, definitely _looks_ like it’s been up and running for two hundred years. 

There are enough old grandpa clocks and random reliquary lying around to make someone _deem it appropriate_ to call it an antique shop, but besides that every visible surface is covered in books. And he means _covered_ in books. Piles and piles over tables and armchairs and odd furniture he can’t recognize due the amount of crap over it. 

He takes a few more tentative steps further inside and approaches some shelves- head tilting just a bit to chance a read at the spines- those look like _really old books_. He straightens and distractedly bumps into an overflooded desk- it doesn’t budge an inch. A hand reaches out for and opens the covers of the top book of the stack. A quick flip as he checks for a date and surely- oh _yes_ _._ Definitely an _antique bookshop_. 

That is one fact. Now for the most important bit- where the heck is Mister Fell? 

Crowley makes sure to keep calling the guy’s name as he goes further into the shop ‘ _Mr. Fell? Are you there? Everything alright? I’m from next door.'_ He’s getting sweaty with all the tension- look, Crowley is not _oblivious_ \- he knows at first glance most people would feel uncomfortable bumping into him unannounced on the streets. _F_ _laming red hair, dark clothing, piercings gleaming, dark splotches of inked skin everywhere_ \- he doesn’t _need_ someone to explain to him the possible monstrous reactions of finding a stranger like him in their own homes _uninvited_ _._

He gets it, preconception is a bitch, _ta very much and_ _fuck off_. 

He doesn’t want to get into trouble but he can’t risk not coming in and then having to deal with the death of an old man on his shoulders for being too much of a coward. He advances to the back, albeit hesitantly. 

There is a humming buzz permeating the place- the deeper he goes the worse it gets. He would attempt faking nonchalance but the moment his shoes leave the carpet the floor fucking _trembles_. Is only with years of practiced ‘keeping your cool face on’ in front of his misbehaving plants that he manages to not yelp. He can feel the wood quavering under his soles, and the feeling is both bizarre and disconcerting. 

He doesn’t feel too sure about things anymore. Is quite dark out here and whatever weird tune is playing is giving him the _creeps_. He got goosebumps all over and his fine body hair is standing in attention. The sound is muffled, and reminds Crowley of those grimy straining pieces people play when Halloween is just around the corner. 

Crowley likes spooky all right. Big spooky fan, him. Spooky is _fine_. But this? This is what horror movies are _made of_. 

Another string of ‘ _Mr. Fell’s_ latter and still no answer. Shit. This is the moment everyone in the theater is asking _‘who'_ _s stupid enough to keep going? Run the hell out right now'._ The sound is definitely not loud enough to make oneself _unheard_ over it. _Unless you’re deaf or dead._ His mind supplies.

 _Fuck._

Just when Crowley is adjusting to the hit of a very real possibility of finding himself face-to-face with a corpse- the tune takes a drumming macabre crescendo and the flooring _shakes_ with it .Crowley’s heart is struggling a bit to maintain composure and if _anyone ever said he looked unsteady on his feet he will point out that is just an effect of the goddamned vibrations travelling through his body_. 

“M-Mr. Fell?!” He calls up. 

Not. A. Fucking. Word. 

_That’s it._ His mind supplies. _I’m the fucking protag in a horror production._ Crowley curses. If the bloody old man is not dead yet Crowley will _gladly_ help him out on his crossing! 

The song takes another turn to a really bone chilling woodwind work and- _this is bullshit_ \- Crowley _can’t take any more of this_ \- 

He sets off to the origin of this miserably _terrifying piece_ and stomps through the only door at his line of sight, lungs set to expel an angst filled shout of “ _MR. FELL FOR FUCKS SAKE WHERE ARE YOU-_ ” But the office is- empty- an old overturned gramophone on the floor a bit off to the side- where the goddamned funeral soundtrack is coming from. He growls in frustration and steps in to turn it the fuck off- 

From the corner of his eyes there is a _flash of white_ coming from behind a shelf- someone _screams._ Crowley shrieks like a demon being drowsed in holy water. 

Something drops to the carpet with a _thump_ sound. 

Crowley thumps louder. 

Less of a thump and more of a _crack_ as his head hits the door frame and he proceeds to collapse in a pained heap on the floor. “What the FUCK JESUS- SATAN- CHRIST” hand cradling his temple- moaning and cursing. 

There is a flurry of movement followed by a sound like a dying banshee. Somehow the minor earth wake subsides. There are tears in his eyes. Blasted solid bloody wood. 

He can’t tell how long it took for him to register a second voice- his ears are ringing for some reason- and there is another pair of hands cupping his throbbing head and there is faint- is that shushing? Is someone really _shushing_ him?! 

“Sshhh. I’m so sorry, are you alright? Sshhh. Oh dear, that looked painful!” 

Good news: That does not sound like a dead elderly. Bad news: He’s going to sound like one in a second. Crowley musters the most murderous glare he can and prepares to shout this guy into submission- he blinks the tears out and turns with a snarl- 

only to freeze. 

There’s an angel. 

_Blue eyes_ \- the same blue Crowley has used to mimic flowing water around _Koi ponds_ and _clear skies_ cradling birds in fly- _fa_ _ir skin_ \- the most malleable canvas, it takes ink _like it was meant to be painted all colors -_ plush lips- blond curly hair, shinning _almost white_ surrounded by a _halo of light_ \- and the angel moves and Crowley curses again. 

“Sorry, sorry, let me just-” And then warmth leaves his skin. “Just a minute- Yes! There it goes. Light’s off now.” 

Crowley sits up a little but dares not open his eyes until his dark glasses are back on the right position. Mr. Angel is back beside him, hands hovering for a while before coming together in an anxiousness driven twist-and-fumble motion. 

“Are you alright? I- I’m sorry if I startled you, I… I wasn’t expecting company today..?” He sounds so uncertain. Soft but lost, with an underlying note of uneasiness common of those flung into an uncomfortable situation. 

And just like that Crowley is brought back to the present. 

“Oh shit-” he shoots up in a flurry of limbs- long legs wobbling embarrassingly for a moment before finding their balance- the movement brings a sudden flash of pain to his temple that Crowley ignores after a wince. “I’m your new neighbor? Kinda? My shop just opened up where Madame Tracy’s used to be?-” Bewildered blue eyes are wide open- eyebrows shooting up- dammit dammit. 

“-I wasn’t trying to be a weirdo I _swear_ ,” And that doesn’t sound even a bit suspicious does it “-I came in for- Oh crap!” He looks around, trying to locate the- “A-ha!” He shouts and quickly dives to grab the box of pastries, unconsciously abandoned in the mishaps occurred in the last couple minutes. Crowley jerkily presents it to Mr. Angel. “I got those as a gift- neighbor greetings and all that- for uh, for Mr. Fell..?” His own hands gesturing about while he tries to not to get himself thrown into jail. 

There is an awkward silence, and Crowley grimaces but Mr. Angel is looking a bit… uncertain. Which is understandable after all that has happened. His eyebrows draw together and for a moment he just seems to mumble a bit to himself before- “Oh, _I_ _see!_ -” lighting up with understanding. 

“You’re the one taking over Jezebel’s- she did indeed mention handing the place to a friend.” Mr. Angel turns to him. Tension lines leaving his face to be replaced by a smile. “I completely lost track of time you see- received a batch of new books a few days ago and well, couldn’t control myself enough to not dive into them first chance I got…” 

Mr. Angel’s hands seem to stop their fidgeting as he relaxes. Crowley’s eyes are draw to that lovely shade of pastel blue- _like the pond, like the sky, like his eyes_ \- layered finely on each perfectly delicate fingernail. 

_God_. 

Crowley feels a zap like electricity and snaps up to find those same colored eyes staring directly at his face. That’s an _intense look_ right there. “Yes, err...” Brain faltering on its capacity to form thoughts and sentences. “I’m Crowley- Anthony J. Crowley. A err, a friend and I will be running a Tattoo Parlor next door.” 

“Fascinating!” Mr. Angel says, and for once in Crowley’s life the word doesn’t sound condescending but like, somehow, this ethereal creature _truthfully_ finds the prospect of tattoo parlors to be someway fascinating. 

“Aziraphale Fell,” Manicured hand posed for a handshake. “I’m the proprietor of this shop. Feel free to call me by my name- although I do understand most people find it easier to stick to Fell.” 

_Aziraphale._ Crowley’s mind registers. Mr. Angel has an _actual angelic name_.

Isn’t that neat? 

He also happens to be the owner Mr. Fell and not at all an eighty something old. Crap.

Crowley recovers easily, following up with the handshake and finally managing to pass on the blessed pastries. He quips an apology about their probable state of disarray and offers to ' _just replace the whole lot’_ but Aziraphale waves it off ' _Is all_ _tickety_ _boo'_ and visibly perks up after a quick glance at the logo _‘Oh, Thank you, those are lovely_ ’- and while he’s preoccupied Crowley takes that moment of distraction to take a better look at those painted nails- _yes._

 _That shade_ _definitely suits him_. 

“-right?" 

“Huh?” Crap. He wasn’t paying attention. “Uh. Yes...?" 

“Excellent!" Aziraphale pipes up. Seeming to take his hesitant enquiry as an agreement. “Follow me then, tea will be ready in a tick." 

_Tea_. He just agreed to _sit down for tea_. 

“Nn... maybe I should-" But Aziraphale is not paying attention, already out of the room and halfway up the stairs. 

“I’ve just got the perfect mix- it pairs well with anything sweet." He gives the box a gentle shake as if to emphasize the idea. His shoulders doing a thing Crowley has yet to find the right word to describe. 

What leaves Crowley with no other option but to rush after him. _Tea_. He reasons. I can manage tea. 

___ 

Crowley _cannot_ manage tea. 

Well, _tea_ he can manage. _Tea_ is fine. _Tea_ is simple and mostly harmless. What he cannot survive _is this._

Sandy-tan clad legs, moving around the cramped kitchen- turning and twisting and- **_Oh lord have mercy_** \- bending- _he's bending down_ \- thighs- those _plush looking thighs_ \- straining the fabric in a few choice spots. This. _This_ he cannot manage. 

“It won’t take long now." Aziraphale says, suddenly by the table. He sets down an odd patterned plate filled to the brim with bite sized crispy chocolate stuffed delicacies. Crowley blinks and confirms that indeed- a kettle managed to materialize itself on the stove top while he was lost in _sin land._ “-ure you’re alright? Does it hurt?" 

A zap of electricity has his spine snapping straight in a millisecond. Dammit. Aziraphale’s got a hand gesturing to his temple and a worried expression that seems to be growing in intensity pretty fast. Shit. “S’alright, just a bump really. Nothing to worry ‘bout." Crawley says, trying to go for a laidback reassuring tone. _Get a grip on yourself will you_. 

Aziraphale for one doesn’t seem reassured in the slightest. Concern stark on the lines of his face, round nose peppered with adorable wrinkles and lips jutting out in a cute mock of a pout- shit. Abort. He drops his eyes a bit, salmon colored (tartan is so out of its time, why even that sounds cute?) bowtie a beacon to focus on an otherwise plain white button down. 

Crowley plays it cool and snatches a pastry. Nibbling on it so he can have a distraction. It helps that the gesture seems to give Aziraphale some semblance of comfort, enough that he lets the matter go. 

“If you’re sure.." And proceeds to pluck one from the plate himself and stuff it into his mouth. Blond eyelashes fall to greet cheeks. 

Crowley drops his half-eaten treat onto his lap- barely missing his jeans to land in between his splayed legs. Satan- _the noises_ _he makes_. He swallows a curse- throat suddenly dry as a desert. 

This is a test. God is punishing him. Or treating him. He’s not sure. Maybe later when he _can think_ he might work out the specifications. 

For now, he quickly re-collets the fallen piece before Aziraphale notices his mishap. Miraculously he also manages to remember to close his mouth shut before the Angel catches him in the act of drooling like a goddamned dog. 

“Those are absolutely _scrumptious_." 

“Ngk." 

Crowley wants to hide away and die. He settles on sneaking the rescued piece onto his mouth to cover up for it. His face feels hot. 

The kettle whistles. Small mercies. 

Aziraphale promptly gets up, his feet a cushioned pitter patter on the linoleum. Crowley’s eyes snap down. 

He’s barefoot. 

_He’s barefoot._

How did Crowley _miss that_? 

He hit his head too hard, his brain probably got scrambled a bit. There is also the scare, and the adrenaline. He also had had nothing to eat bef- _Good Lord mother of_ \- his _toes_. 

Even his _toenails are blue_. 

One fatal blow after the other, Crowley chokes. 

“Oh! Goodness gracious- here, have some water-” Aziraphale picks up a glass from the tray and slides it to Crowley who gratefully takes it after a coughed thanks. 

“Those naughty flakey crumbs,” he says with reproval. “-slide into your windpipe so easily. Trust me, I know.” The shop keeper tuts. Graciously pouring two cups of tea in a mismatched set made of antique outdated pieces. 

He sets the pot down. Fluid, well-practiced movements of someone who does so multiple times a day. 

Crowley can’t remember if he owns a kettle, nevermind a tea set. 

“-have a look at it. I didn’t notice they had finished, did you work on the whole building?" 

Dammit- For hells’ sake those fingers are too distracting. 

“Err, not actually, the shop floor was the one to suffer most changes,” he drawls, information somehow coming out of his mouth even though the serves are offline. “-the upstairs flats are still there- my business partner moved into one- mostly the same excluding a few modifications. All the rest was superficial renovations." 

Aziraphale nodded, sipping his drink. “I see.” Hands absentmindedly proffering sugar and cream. Crowley politely waved the offer off and took the hint to start drinking his own tea. “I assumed it would take quite a while to remodel the whole thing." 

“I should apologize for all the noise you had to endure in the last couple weeks by the way-” And here comes that feeling again- like dozens of eyes locked on him. What the heck. “- renovations can be a pain, I hope it wasn’t too troubling.” He looks up and Mr. Fell’s gaze is indeed once again completely focused on him. _God Almighty_. This guy can be so intense. 

“Ah, I can assure you it was no bother- I barely noticed anything.” He smiles, a soft playful tilt to it. Soft palms cradling the tea cup. Nail polish like a forbidden fruit, tempting. Crowley is fucked. He needs to get out of here and regroup. He needs a distraction. 

Another pastry it is. 

“Is good to have a new business around- don't mistake me, I will miss Jezebel _dearly_ , she has been a friend for as long as I can remember- but I’m happy for her and sometimes is nice to have a change." An amused tilt to his smile. “Doesn’t hurt to know she finally got what she wanted, after so long." 

“Ah yeah- In good time. Never thought I would see the end of all that pinning. God, the pain.” Crowley quips. 

Aziraphale laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t I know.” A grin. “At least you haven’t had to live next door throughout all of it." 

“Glad to be of service." 

Conversation flows smoothly after that. Aziraphale ends up being really good at keeping it going, jumping from one topic to the next seamlessly. Is still kind of weird to be the receiver of such err, _attentiveness_ as the book dealer’s concentration has not strayed from Crowley at all for most of it, but between dissecting that hideous (maybe cute) bowtie and getting his fill of tea, he makes do. 

At some point Aziraphale is complimenting on Crowley’s Jewelry _‘-they suit you quite well, I could never pull it off, see, mine are quite simple-_ ' and Crowley is trying to not go up in flames so his eyes drift to said earrings and he waves the comment with ‘yours are perfectly fine-' without sounding like a babbling mess- when he notices it. 

Is quick, and he might have imagined it- but no. Aziraphale does it again. And again. 

Aziraphale is staring at his lips. 

Subtle, furtive glances. But they are there. 

Crowley flushes. 

Probably the sneak bites fault. 

Yes. Probably. 

An old clock chooses that moment to stop ticking and goes off. Crowley is glad he has finished his tea already so he doesn’t end up getting his clothes wet when he jolts in surprise. 

Jesus, he has to work on those nerves. 

Crowley instinctively takes a look at his watch and almost wails. 

“Hell, I’m fucked." He stands, distressed groan coming out. Aziraphale follows up, concerned frown already in place. “I haven’t got my phone,” Crowley says in lea of an explanation. “I’ve been out for longer than I should and my friend’s gon’ kill me." 

“My goodness! I wasn’t keeping track-” Says the blond, apologetic. “-I shouldn’t have kept you so long!" 

They are both thought the shop floor and onto the entrance in no time, Aziraphale opening the door- which somehow came to be resting back on its frame, not really closed, but as close as it could do with only the wind to help it- and gestures for Crowley to pass through. The red haired stops, just shy of crossing the entryway. 

“I am really sorry for coming in without your permission by the way” he starts. “I went to The Horseman first and honestly,” he huffs, deciding to go for the truth. “-the way they talk would make anyone assume you where an old gent.” He admits embarrassingly. “And after finding you shop open like that-” shoulder tutting a bit to the side meaning to convey the whole ‘unlocked and ajar’ situation “my mind just went straight to the worse scenarios you know.” 

That earns him a chuckle from Fell. 

“I believe I can’t really fault you for that one.” He quips. 

Crowley chances a smirk of his own. “It just got to a point where I thought you were either dead or really hard of hearing.” He shrugs. 

“Ah- well. Those seem like, err, the most reasonable conclusions to come to, don’t they?” Aziraphale fumbles with another series of chuckling-like sounds that does not settle down as warmly as the previous one. His face does a thing- is just a flash- and it dissapears so quickly Crowley can't be sure it actually happened or not.

There is a tick at the back of his mind telling Crowley somethings off but he’s too preoccupied with the possibility of facing Anathema’s fury twice in a span of hours and disconcerted by the last hour’s interactions to really pinpoint _what_ exactly. He needs time to process this- whatever this – this is- or isn’t. 

He still can’t think properly. 

“You- you could uh,” he coughs. “-drop by?" He chances nervously. “I could uh- show you around? I mean, show the shop, show the shop around." 

“Ah, sure. I-" Aziraphale’s eyes are focused a bit too low again- fucking fuck- a pink tongue darts out, leaves a small spot of moisture on the skin- “-I will come by." 

“Ngk." 

Crowley needs to go. 

“Uh- Great! See you later then!" He squeaks and dashes. 

Blurred seconds later he’s on his shop, door slamming after him. He cradles his face on his hands and groans. Fuck _fuck_. 

By the time he notices Anathema calling his name he’s no more than a dark colored puddle on the floor. 

He groans and musters enough energy to make a shoo motion with one arm. 

“What the hell’s got into you? Newt said you’re scaring him. What took you so bloody long? First day and you disappear for hours. Take your phone next time.” She nudges him with a boot clad foot. Frustration coming out of her in torrents. 

He mumbles. Fingers moving to grip his hair, face buried on his jeans. 

She shifts closer, crouches down. “What happened?” and now her tone is calmer, more concerned. “Don’t tell me you mucked it all up with the neighbors.” She huffs. “You had one job Anthony.” She’s bantering, Crowley can tell she is smiling from the sound of it. 

“C’mon, I won’t be mad. What got you like this?" 

He mumbles. 

“You know I can’t hear you like this, c’mon spit it out." 

Crowley twists, arms hugging his knees. He turns his head, facing opposite her. “I... I met an angel.” 

Anathema splutters. "What.” 

“I went to the bakery- got a bunch of the tiny chocolate-y thingys- you know the ones- Pub visit was nice- the owners are nice- then I- I went to the book shop." 

There is a long stretch of silence. The brunette sighs. Why must everything be so complicated. 

“So you went to the Marlows first then to the bookshop. What went wrong then?” They should give her a medal, he’s not a kid, he shouldn’t need translation. 

The ball of frustrating drama tightens. “There was an angel." His head comes up, eyes closed. He lets out a shuddered breath. “There was an angel in the bookshop and he made me stupid." He groans, a painful rumble “I’m trying to get myself back together." 

Oh. Thinks Anathema. Oh. 

She hums. _Oh._

“Of course-" Her eyes roll back “-of _course_ you would fall apart for the likes of Mr. Fell-” voice filled with amusement. “I should have seen it coming- I _should have seen_ it." 

Crowley turns to her in a flash. “You knew- _you know him_?" He gapes. 

“We’ve talked before- Jezebel introduced us- I helped him get a book once, he was overtly pleased.” She shrugs, dismissive. “Nothing much." 

“Uuuughhh" 

“I didn’t think- I mean, I know you’re into the cute types and all- but Mr. Fell? Like, really?" 

“He has... nice hands.” Crowley shares. Voice taking a dream like quality to it. 

“He had blue nail polish on." He whispers. “ _Pastel blue_ nail polish." 

“Huh. I didn’t know he started going for color. Still, I didn’t think-" 

“You don’t get it even his _toes_ where blue-" 

“Wait what- how t-" 

“His face is all- _soft_ -" 

“Well, yes but-" 

“And he’s _thick_." 

“Oh my God-" She starts but quick, well timed flashbacks have her running a mental checklist, nodding soon, understanding. “Ah. That actually sorts it then.” She nods more. 

Crowley’s mind goes back to the sound of Aziraphale’s laugh, his ridiculous bowtie. 

He sighs, heart doing somersaults. 

Anathema gives him a look. But doesn’t comment. 

“Guess the whole sending you to meet and greet was a good idea in the end." 

Crowley ponders that. 

He re-enacted an overused horror flick plot scene, and might have just used a month’s worth of startle cards, and jumped a few levels towards an early death and pulverized most of his brain cells while at it. His blood flow might be permanently compromised after being put under so much pressure, and he still can’t make out if he ended up playing a complete and utter fool - but he met Aziraphale, and he’s beautiful and sweet and he lives next door and they had tea and if he closes his eyes he can see those curls and that shade of blue- 

Was it a good idea? 

“Yes," He says. Heart stuttering, thin lips quirking up softly at the edges. “It might just have been, yes." 

A brilliant idea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally just copy pasted the whole chapter- didn't spell check or shit. Whatever was written four months ago is what you got! To be entirely honest, I wasn't happy with the first few paragraphs. I still am not, but somehow didn't have the heart to cut off the whole thing off. Meh, the plants can take it.
> 
> Thoughts?


	2. An Angel fell, right over me. It hit me hard and I can't breath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He steadies himself up, tugs the sleeves of his jumper, tongue probing at his piercings absent minded. 
> 
> Yeah, he can do this. It shouldn’t be this hard. 
> 
> Everything is in place, the shop is tidy, his plants all proper (if a bit wet) and he’s got his favorite jeans on so he’s feeling snatched. 
> 
> “I will get another coffee going-” he stops and ponders. Do they have tea? He can’t remember. He turns her way. “Anathema do we have any-" 
> 
> Crowley screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I skip to the bits that I desperately want to get to?  
> No?  
> Okay.
> 
> Also- on my notes I've got a description of Crowley that just sums up what ya'll up for in this fic:  
> "I need Crowley to be emotional. Like. To suddenly just burst out in tears. He anxiety. He soft."
> 
> Should I also say this is not a slow burn? Like, they will get there quickly. Cowley just needs a bit of time to process the shock of meeting an Angel. This is going to be romantic, and mushy- Crowley needs to get a grip!
> 
> And he will.  
> Just not today.
> 
> Enjoy, I guess.

It was a bad idea. A _horrible_ idea.

Regardless of the fact Crowley was very late to his first day, (It's his shop, and it was Anathema's fault, does it still count?) things seemed to work out just fine.

They mostly had visits from their old clients, dropping by to check the new address and compliment them on the store. Inauguration days are supposed to be a trial anyways, not really any hands-on work.

Which was a blessing, as Cowley’s mind was ninety miles per hour running through a wall of fire away from here.

Well, _not exactly_.

His mind was actually really close by- just next door, to be precise.

The red haired felt like bursting into hysterics every hour or so. It was madness, the way old fashioned Mr. Fell got into his head. Gentled his way into his chest, set down on his lungs and proceeded to have tea on it. Squishy bare feet nestled behind his ribcage.

If this is what the blond could do with roughly an hour in his presence, Crowley dreads to imagine what will be left of his composure the longer he’s exposed to him. Maybe he will get used to it. Isn’t that the body’s normal reaction? Produce antibodies- slowly built up immunity.

Yeah, that’s sound right.

Hopefully.

They did end up popping back to The Horsemen for a couple drinks by the end of the day- Anathema jumping to the occasion when Crowley mentioned the Pub owner’s invite. It was good to be so warmly welcomed and Crowley couldn’t deny he needed a glass or two to help him process the earlier happenings. One of humanity’s oldest soothing balms.

He wish he could have indulged a bit more, drank until all his muscles relaxed to mush, and his thoughts became a far away buzz. As it comes, he had to drive home. Crowley was many things, but stupid- err imprudent- wasn’t one of them.

So a couple glasses of wine it was.

He would take whatever he could at this point.

Now, after a night rolled up like a snake on his silk sheets, Crowley felt more like his cool-headed self again. He could take some time today to think about how he was going to deal with this- with him.

 _Aziraphale_. Crowley should be embarassed by the amount of times he has repeated the name in his head, out loud- feeling the slight whistling of air ghosting between his teeth, the breathy purr following the last silabe- the sweet aftertaste of chocolate and leftover residue of butter stuck at the roof of ones mouth. Should be ashamed at how he fought for hours that night for the willpower necessary to hold himself back from trying to reconstruct that distinct shade of blue, the enchanting shiny hue of his curly hair- set alight by the lamplight.

Crowley needed to think, and for that he needed a clear mind, a rested body.

He could do that.

Slithering out of Bentley’s comforting interior, the lyrics of ‘I’m in love with my car' still humming its way out under his breath, set of keys clinking against each other while he got the one he needed poised to turn the shop’s lock-

“Oh dear, oh silly me-"

He could do that- _if only he could get a damn break_.

“Mr. Fell!" Crowley squeaked, having almost bumped into the slightly spooked bookshop owner. Fuck.

“Ah, morning- Crowley was it? lovely seeing you." And that smile made it’s appearance, too bright for such a time of day- Crowley fussed with his glasses, glad for the protection they provided.

Someone's definitely out there to mess with him. Give a guys’ heart some time prepare for Somebody’s sake!

“Good- G’ Mornin’ Mr. Fell."

“Please, just Aziraphale- or Fell should suffice. No need to be so formal, really."

“Yes, of course, uh, A- Aziraphale." There goes again, the whistle of air, the curling of his tongue. The blond nods, looking pleased. God- Satan- It's too bloody early for this.

“I suppose most people start their days early," Aziraphale goes on casually, his small talk skills showing themselves once again. “-I was never an early riser myself, usually I do not bother unless I’ve got plans."

“Ah, one of these days then. Work?" Yes, that’s it brain, cooperate, don’t fail me now.

“I’m afraid not.” The blonds tone giving out how disappointed he really is that this isn’t the case. “Just uh, an inevitable matter which I’ve... procrastinated on getting done."

“I can relate." Crowley assents, thinking about the whole upstairs flat he hasn’t looked into yet, and there is also the roof... urgh. He grimaces. Too early for that too. “Sometimes is easier to not think about some stuff." 

The blond hums, a quiet unreadable expression taking his figure.

A second is a lifetime for an anxious heart.

And Crowley’s got The anxious heart. Capital _The_.

“Indeed." The blond nods.

Crowley can't hear much over the drumming madness that has become his ribcage.

“Well, I should let you go, wouldn’t like to keep you late." What is he doing- don't let him go like that you moron. Don't let him go- “Perhaps-” And in a second hes got Aziraphale’s signature intense glare working up the deadliest flush at Crowley's poorly prepared self.

 _Have mercy_.

“Perhaps we could uh, continue our conversation later? I kind of promised a tour of the shop..." Good recovery-That sounded very casual. Crowley internally pats himself in the back for that one.

Aziraphale seems to still, lips thinning momentarily. The distinct few seconds of a pause that could be read as hesitation hanging in the air.

Crowley’s stomach plummets. Regroup, regroup! Shitshit.

“That is, uh, only if you would like to, I mean err, if you have other plans-"

“No, no-, I mean, yes of course I would like to-" The blond started, frantic hands moving about. “-I’ve promised Helena I would help her with some references for her daughter’s wedding-" And Crowley’s face or body might have done something because Aziraphale rushes with double the amount of frantic movement. “-But that’s not until late afternoon! I could uh, I could come by on my way? Earlier, with enough time to spare, I mean."

“Uh, yes...” Hand nervously fiddling with the half bun at the back of his head, a knot of discomfort still twisting something inside him. “-you're sure it’s okay though? I don’t-"

“Is no trouble at all my dear, I," A few white teeth scrap his bottom lip, leaving a blooming spot of dark pink. “I would love to see your work, honestly,” He clasps his hands in front of himself, a hush of breath leaving his lungs. “It would be a pleasure."

Crowley looks at him then. At the gentle sincere crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the soft tilt of his mouth, those nervous jittering hands and their painted nails peeking at the edges. He swallows.

He feels lightheaded.

Oh shit, breath you idiot. He inhales a lungful and manages to wheeze something out.

“...if you’re sure then."

“Positively." Aziraphale beams, smile widening.

“Right." Crowley assents, head nodding, more to make the words sink into his on brain. He coughs, eyes roaming anywhere but Aziraphale.

“Just come by whenever. Good look with your inevitable thing."

“Ah yes. See you later, then." And just as that they part ways. Aziraphale waving and picking up his way to wherever he’s going. Crowley manages to get into the shop –after a few failed attempts to unlock the blasted thing- and goes straight to the storage room that houses a small corner table and a coffee maker that he rushes to get started. He needs coffee, he needs a distraction. He needs something to make him stop thinking about the angel and the fact he gets to see him later on today- He's not ready, God, he is not ready-

He needs to wile his brain to stop malfunctioning at said angel’s presence.

Crowley takes a deep, necessary breath. Then half a dozen more just to be sure. His hands are itching.

With a few taps on his phone the speakers start blasting through the shop. He collapses on a chair, pours his coffee and holds the mug with both hands, wiling the warmth to keep them at bay.

_I gotta be cool, relax, get hip_

_And get on my track’s_

_Take a back seat, hitch-hike-_

Head trown back, the flourescent light catching on his glasses- Crowley sighs, closes his eyes- lets the song travel it’s way to his bones. That smile, ah, with a smile like that...

_And take a long ride on my motorbike until I’m ready..._

___

Appointments where planned sparsely, so they could take it easy for the first week, see how things flowed, fix any minor details they might have overlooked- Crowley wanted to avoid messing up on the start, and Anathema and Newt where just freshly moved into one of the upstairs flats and he would rather everyone had a time to adjust and settle down in a new environment.

It gave him too much free time to keep himself from overthinking. God knows Crowley doesn't need much time to overthink anything and everything.

Anathema took the news of Mr. Fell’s visit with a wicked smile and a few playful jokes.

It was fun to abserve for the first couple hours. Now though- now is _torture_.

“Anthony _put that down_." Said Anathema, frustration evident on every word. “It’s the third time you got up to mist your plants and I know you’re not thinking straight but I won’t have you complaining about drowning them later if I can stop you.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.” He dismisses, but can’t hold a grimace after looking at the mister in his hand, poised to strike his poor succulent by the counter for what he knows is a time too many in the last few hours. He sets the bottle aside, a sigh leaving his lips. All he doesn’t need now is to give his plants a real reason to perform badly.

“I get it," the brunette approaches. “You’re nervous, and really, that’s fine. But Anthony- He’s just popping in for a look around. I mean,” and here she chuckles. “-you already had tea with the guy after barging in on his house unannounced like a goddamned thief." Crowley’s face can’t help but go red all over.

“Well, thanks for the reminder-" That was _a way_ to muck up first impressions.

“The point is, regardless of all the assumptions he could have taken-” Her brown eyes are fierce, reminding him they both know how shitty people can be. “after all of that, he still sat down and had a chat with you. Made you tea.”

And that’s something Crowley still can’t understand. Despise everything that could have painted Crowley in a bad light, Aziraphale had been welcoming, completely unbothered by the figure he cut. Approachable, hospitable, chatty. _Nonjudgmental._

The memory tightens a lump at the back of Crowley’s throat.

“Mr. Fell is a decent guy, and so are you.” Anathema continues, a hand giving a light pat at his back. “And whatever makes you think this can be worse than that is stupid." Amber eyes turn to face his friend, her soft smile contagious.

“Be a little more confident yeah?"

Crowley exhales, a shaky but needed one. He nods. Anathema lets him go.

He steadies himself up, tugs the sleeves of his jumper, tongue probing at his piercings absent minded. _Those soft eyes, that pool of baby blue_. He shivers. Yeah, he can do this. 

It shouldn’t be this hard. Everything is in place, the shop is tidy, his plants all proper (if a bit wet) and he’s got his favorite jeans on so he’s feeling snatched.

“I will get another coffee going-” he stops and ponders. Do they have tea? He can’t remember. He turns her way. “Anathema do we have any-"

Crowley screams.

 _Except_ \- no one reacts.

Is all in his head. Is what we call _internal screaming_.

He opens his mouth and falters. His jaw working, not a single proper word comes out. It’s Aziraphale. Aziraphale it’s there. Bloody nonexistent blasted bell-

Crowley can't do this.

“Hi-ey.” He chokes out.

That’s what happens when someone can’t decide between hi-ing or hey-ing and settles for making a complete fool of themselves.

Crowley’s cheeks _burn_.

Aziraphale’s go up and try to hide his eyes. He looks delightful.

The red haired short circuits. Antibodies my ass.

“Hello, hope it’s a good time?"

Ngk- Crowley can’t think, and so it’s relieved when someone jumps to the rescue.

“Mr. Fell!”

“Miss Device!" There is an unmistakable ecstatic joy in the sentence. “-such a pleasure to see you again! I never got the chance to thank you properly for your help before."

“Don’t mention, that was my pleasure."

“Still. I had no idea you were setting up business here."

“Oh yes! That’s the reason I was getting rid of some of my family’s items. I needed to empty out the cottage for Jezebel- Anthony and I couldn’t let the opportunity pass, it was time we got our own shop." Aziraphale’s eyes seems to widen, flicking between Crowley and Anathema.

“Oh! So your fiancé-"

Crowley hitches, skin going cold.

Anathema, the savior, doesn’t miss a beat.

“-Is upstairs. We still have a lot to sort out from the moving." She pouts, mock obliviousness melting into a malicious smile. “Oh, you couldn’t possibly?” her eyes going from the blond to her frozen friend. She chuckles, leaning in closely to Aziraphale, playing friendly. “Mr. Fell, the guy is as straight as the way he walks and if you haven’t seen it-" and that gets Crowley blushing, asking for a hole to open and engulf him whole “-that’s an undeniably sinuous line." The brunette laughts, playfully nudging the blond, tone light as a butterfly. As if a certain someone wasn’t having an internal crisis in the same room.

 _That evil witch_.

“How- Why don’t you get us some tea while I take over huh?” Crowley jumps between the two, sneakily jabbing a bony elbow to Anathema’s ribs. She glares, he jabs her again, for good measure.

“Oh, I wouldn’t wish to-”

“No no, is fine, she was on her way to make some anyways, big tea person, Anathema.” Go away. Amber eyes say. I will smite you if I have to.

Anathema grins. A gesture full of hidden mirth.

“Yes yes, I will be right back- enjoy the view.” She bids. And off she goes up the stairs- probably to get some tea going on her flat as they haven’t got a single tea bag in the shop. Crowley hopes she takes her time.

Back to reality.

“So... Fancy a tour?”

\---

Aziraphale seems charmed with the shop- what fires something in Crowley he can't really explain. He takes time to take closer looks at every bit of décor _‘I can tell you put a lot of thought on it all’_ and to lay praises on every single sketch he sees _‘that’s stunning, such pretty colors-’_ Crowley takes a polite step back to avoid being caught blushing like mad at some of them _‘marvellous work, a truly piece of art’_ and fails miserably in keeping his heart working at a moderate pass.

He won’t last long this way.

The bookseller seems genuinely interested and asks rapid questions about the work- Crowley is happy that he can smoothly give him information even when half of his brain is malfunctioning. Aziraphale makes cute sounds and is awfully sweet to the plants after learning they are under Crowley’s care. The red haired launches on a lecture about how plants only thrive in the face of discipline but holds back from detaining the angel from touching his plants when smooth hands reach to pet softly at some of them.

He wasn’t envious of the tenderness they were receiving. Not at all. And if was pettiness more than reproach that made him glare menacingly at the potted things when Aziraphale moved ahead, no one can prove it.

After a full turn they are back to the front, Anathema nowhere to be seem (Thank Someone). Aziraphale is in the middle of an enthusiastic rant about the evolvement of art in the last centuries and the historic development of tattooing as more than cultural rite- hands gesturing and expression jumping from one to another in lighting fast speed when Crowley catches a flash of black and red, head tilting unconsciously to get a better look.

"Oh, that is new-" He catches himself. Aziraphale follows his eyes, for once looking a bit nervous since coming into the shop, left hand coming up to cup the appendage on his ear.

"Ah, yes. I- uh, I didn’t have it on last time.” He flushes, face doing an expression that Crowley thinks definitely doesn’t fit on Aziraphale at all. “I, I dropped it. Few days ago." Painted fingertips lightly caressing the whole length of the snake.

"It was a bit off afterwards you see- and I had to make an appointment to get it re-tunned." He chuckles, a nervous tilt to the words "Thought best to wait a few days to finish cataloguing my most recent aditions. No reason to rush really." Left hand dropping to join the other by his chest, that grip-twist tick of his making another appearance. He adds, hesitantly. "Everything is in tip top shape once again."

Curling around the ear, just shy of being half hidden by wild blond curls, sits a snake shaped accessory. Colors so bold and vibrant a vivid contrast to anything else on his person. It pops out like a drop of black on a white sheet. Its lovely, attention catching, decorative- but if you just take a closer look, it’s obvious it serves a purpose.

It's a hearing aid.

In Crowley’s head, a moment plays on a loop.

I made a joke about him being a hard of hearing old man. I made a joke about him being a hard of hearing old man. I made a joke. About his hearing. I made a _joke_.

Thoughts come crashing down, one ofter the other, previous interactions and stupid assumptions gaining new, painful meaning.

The moment feels like a fall down a pit into a pool of boiling sulfur.

“Oh, cool.”

_He's such an idiot_.

The next minutes are a blur. They exchange some pleasantries- Crowley's brain manages to provide something half decent while his other senses are crashing down. He can’t remember what. He feels sick, _numb_.

Later, when Aziraphale excuses himself to intercept Mrs. Marlow at the sidewalk, Crowley will tighten himself into a ball, bony figure jutting in odd angles, and spill yesterday's embarrassing poor choice of words to Anathema, eyes blurring with self loathing.

"A- And we talked and he wouldn't- he wouldn't ssstop sstaring at me-" he whines, wanting to crawl into a hole "I catched him looking at my lipss a handful of times-" and he's in pain, he can't fucking breath "I-" he swallows, thickly, mortified "-I thought he was either really fassscinated by my sneak bites or or into me-" hiccups "-I cou'da work with any of these alternatives."

Anathema winces in sympathy. She feels guilty somehow, for not mentioning it, but to be honest the though hadn’t crossed her mind at all. She assumed Crowley had noticed, or that it had come up in conversation. Is not like she could have avoided it.

Could she?

She mentally shakes her head.

No way to know.

For now she must do what she can, and continues the slightly, comforting patting of his friends' back.

"I thought I just caught him when he was distracted- or or that he was just stuck in a book or whatever-" his form shakes "I didn't even ask. _I didn't even ask._ " He hiccups. Admonishing himself for being a lustful idiot so stuck into thoughts of plump thighs that he didn't even pay attention to what was going on around him.

Is not that it matters- the fact that Aziraphale has an hearing impairment- because it doesn't.

What matters is that Crowley didn't notice and then said- he then said- his vision blurrs. Now he gets it, Aziraphale's face. _His face_.

He can't believe himself. He can't.

"Unforgivable-" he spits "-that's what I am." eyes itchy with moisture. "I thought he could be interessted but now I can't even tell if tha' was just my stupid brain talking or an actual posssibility."

Another thing he could have missed.

He gasps, irrationally unsettled

"He could be _straight!_ " Humiliation crushing him. A painful whine growing in the back of his throat.

Oh for fucks sake.

"Anthony now, that's too far," Anathema reasons, _this is going beyond logic_ "-the guy was wearing baby blue nail polish- you said even his toes where painted! _Even his toes_."

That only makes Crowley's distress louder.

"W-well," Newt, presence forgotten during the eminent crisis explosion decides to pipe in, directing at Anathema." -we shouldn't assume-" and hes missing the glare he receives at the mere suggestion "-I mean, we don't even know-"

"No one-" The brunette interrupts, fierce eyes burning with uncontested conviction. Hands gripping bony dark clothed shoulders "-and I repeat- NO ONE with a grain of straight on them fawns about like that."

Clueless, unaware, no-sense-of-self-preservation Newt tries to protest.

"What does that even mean-"

"Does the guy look, _even remotely_ , like a standart straight specimen to you?"

Newt’s teeth clack together. A final sound.

Anathema nods.

Case closed.

She turns back to her friend, thoughts about shaking awareness into her fiancé later put aside for the crying blob in the room.

"It will all be fine Anthony, we can help you out-" She coos. Voice tentatively cheery. "Lets have a drink tonight yes? You pour this out of your system and sleep like the death just how you like it-" she nudges, playful "-and then afterwards we can craft a plan on wooing Mr. Fell. Sounds good?"

Crowley's shaking slowly subsides. His face comes up, he sniffles. Nods.

"All right then, up you go- wash up and we will wrap things up here yeah? Brush that hair, it looks like it has been through Armageddon."

Said haired head bobs. Another sniffle.

He hesitates.

"Don't let the sucullent see me." He mutters, hoarse sounding.

Anathema gestures at Newt who promptly grabs the small pot at by the laptop and gently hides it out of view under the counter.

"She won't Boss. You good." And off he goes to the back, a set of stairs leading upstairs.

Back at the reception there is a swat sound, and Anathema’s voice saying something like ' _grow some tact will you_ ' but he's not in the mood to care.

He needs alcohol.

Extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's POV next chapter?
> 
> I think so.
> 
> Edit: I lied.


	3. It matters for me, It matters to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Murder won’t take me anywhere._ Crowley rationalizes. _Murder won’t take me anywhere._
> 
> Anathema sips her coffee once again. At peace, in control.
> 
> Murder won’t take me anywhere.
> 
> _But it would feel so, so good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY I can end this suffering.
> 
> Crowley was killing me guys. Killing me.
> 
> I wondered for hours if it wasn't too much, if Crowley wasn't overreacting to an extreme- but then I realized, that that's a part of him- the overreacting.  
> Also, it does makes sense plot wise.
> 
> So here it goes- the conclusion of... the conclusion. 
> 
> And the start of something.

He’s in hell. Is the first though Crowley has when he wakes up. 

_I'm in hell._

He wasn't, really.

Meh, one guesses it depends on what hell looks like for each person.

 _Hell,_ for Crowley is a headache and a nasty hangover. Is feeling the vile taste of old alcohol stuck to the roof of your mouth and knowing you fucked up and that you deserve it.

The punishment helm. _I’m a bad guy_. He thinks. 

“I’m a bad guy.” He says out loud. 

Arm coming up to rest over his closed eyelids.

“You’re just a massive drama queen.” Anathema berates and slaps him with a pillow.

Crowley turns to hide his face in the uncomfortable sofa’s cushions. The woman's eyes roll up to the back of her head.

“Stop the self depreciation and get your ass up. Is fucking two pm already.” 

Crowley squirms. A feeling not unlike an electric current goes down his spine- a zap of pain that comes with a wince on top and an accompanying groan as dessert. 

His back is _killing_ him. 

_I'm in hell._

“Your sofa is junk." He states. "Send it off with the rubbish next tuesday." _Ergh,_ he shuffles. "I liked the other one better." 

“Says the guy with the hard edged furniture who doesn’t even _owns_ a sofa." 

“I’m minimalistic. It’s a _trend_." _Not that you would understand._ "Really, the _floor_ would be more comfortable than _this_." 

“Well, next time you’re welcome to lay down on the carpet." 

He frowns. _Right._

“You used to be more accommodating." 

“No guest room- also, set up your own apartment upstairs if you will moan about everything."

Crowley pouts.

“But that’s what _I do_." 

The brunette ponders. 

“I get drunk, I moan. I act like an insufferable dick.” He parrots. 

_That he does_ , she thinks.

Anathema hums. 

“I can’t get my act up.” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“I’m a moppey bastard. Full of shite.” 

“Quite accurate, that.” 

Crowley’s mop of head pops up, offended. 

“You’re supposed to disagree." _Cheer me up a bit will ya? Hello?_

“Yes, but only when you’re not making any sense.” Crowley scoffs, mouth ready to spew some other not at all dramatic sentence- 

“-ooof”. And he’s silenced by another well aimed blow to the face. 

“You’re plain evil.” He says after propping himself up in some vague pose of disdain, most likely copy pasted from some other ten insufferable romcoms. 

“I can be.” The brunette huffs, sitting down and upsetting the cushions by crowley’s upper body. An easy silence settles between them. 

Right.

Anathema let's out a long suffering exhale.

_Right._

Let's get this going shall we?

“Look, Anthony-” She starts, soft and steady “-people make small mistakes. You didn’t do anything deliberately to mistreat him-” At this moment Crowley hides his face with a pillow. “-honestly, I don’t even think Fell gave that much attention to that. I’m not sure he even noticed.” 

The red haired doesn’t twitch, face still covered. _He noticed alright_. His mind offers. _He surely did_.

Anathema sighs. 

“I assure you that whatever huge tragedy you think you’re a perpetrator of, it is not as big as you believe. Is all in that over-worrying over-conditioned head of yours." 

Of that Crowley is well aware. He over-worries, he overthinks things and he works them up like a snow ball until they become a self-aware snowman and wreak havoc in your winter garden. He knows it, and Anathema knows it, but Crowley also knows what he saw at the porch of A. Z. Fell & Co., and he knows it was _not good_. Other people would write it off and just move on but Crowley _knows that look_ \- and he didn’t spent that much time going to therapy for that same thing to just ignore it. 

He’s not that kind of guy. 

Not anymore. 

Crowley swallows, breaths out. 

“...Your point is?" 

“The point is- there is no point in suffering without real data.” At that she moves to sit by Crowley’s head. Slowly she shifts the pillow so she can look at his face. “All I’m saying is, don’t stomp your hope before giving it a fair chance." 

Crowley’s eyes shine even in the low light of Anathema’s living room. There is a lot of vulnerability in them, more than she is aware of. But she also knows there is an unique kind of sparkle that can be found in them too, as long as you take the time to learn how to bring it to the surface. 

“Come on-” She gives his shoulder a little shake. “Straighten up! Or whatever it is that you do.” She wriggles her eyebrows suggestively, and that earns a smile out of him, which was exactly what she was aiming for. 

_There he is._

“I will bring you coffee and some paracetamol. We have an Angel to entice- and I've even got a plan already!” 

Crowley perks up at that- bony torso springing up, mussed hair twirling with the movement. 

His stomach _lurches_. 

He lays back down with a green face and a stale tasting barf (Eeewl) lodged in his windpipe. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes. 

He will sort his out. 

First things first though. 

\--- 

Crowley doesn’t know how he ended up here. 

That’s a lie. He knows _exactly how:_

 _Bloody Anathema_.

_“_ You said you had a plan.” 

“I do." 

“You said you had _a plan_." Crowley repeats. 

“It is something." Anathema shrugs, gently sipping her coffee. The poise of perfect balance. 

A vein in Crowley’s forehead pops audibly. 

_“’Go there and do something’_ is _not_ a plan." 

“Do you have a better one?" 

Anathema endures a furious golden glare for a full minute. 

“That’s what I thought." 

_Murder won’t take me anywhere._ Crowley rationalizes. _Murder won’t take me anywhere._

Anathema sips her coffee once again. At peace, in control. 

_Murder won’t take me anywhere._

_But it would feel **so, so good**. _

He gets up from her (incredibly uncomfortable, and not at all a fitting place to let your most beloved friend crash while pissed) sofa and paces around the living room. After going back home for a much needed shower and a proper nap to recover (Anathema can say shit about his décor but his bed is a blissful masterpiece and that is a fact), coming back after hours for their little ' _plan meeting'_. Christ, he’s doing a piss poor job at being a proper business owner so far. Leaving Anathema to deal with the shop by herself. 

He needs to do something. 

He deflates. 

_He needs to do something._

“Alright, so that’s it? I go there and say what? ‘Sorry for mocking you, I swear I’m not a jerk'?" 

“If that’s what you wanna say." 

“It is not- It- It kind of is- I don’t-" He struggles, hands messing up his hair anxiously. “-I... I don’t know." He sighs, dragging himself to a corner chair and dropping down on it, defeated. “I don’t know." 

“But you want to apologize right?" Anathema probs, finally abandoning her drink at the side table. 

Crowley squirms, but nods. 

“Look, I know you, and even though I don’t think is necessary-" She holds up a hand to abate Crowley’s eminent protest. “-I know it matters to you, to get things right. I know it will bother you until you do it so that’s what we have to start with: An apology." 

Crowley rolls his sleeves, black nails running over ink marked skin. She’s right. He knows she’s right, but that doesn’t stop his hands from shaking. 

He just wants this to be over. 

“I don’t know how to." He breaths out. 

His friend shrugs. 

“There are just so many ways one can apologize." 

That’s true. 

_Still._

Didn’t mean she had to make him do it _now_. 

_‘Glad we agree.’_ she had said, _‘Because this ends today’_ right before being bodily dragged outside and deposited at Aziraphale’s doorstep. 

God almighty. This is insane. Can’t she see how insane this is. He glances right to see his aforementioned friend half hanging out of the shop’s door, her eyes burning with intention.

‘ _Knock on that door before I go do it myself'_ she mouths. 

“What are we? Twelve?" He rationalizes.

 _‘You know I will.'_ It’s her only answer. 

Crowley turns to the door. It looks just the same as last time. Old wood, printed sign, he wonders if it is unlocked too- and peers closely at the seam between doorway and actual door- yeah, it looks like is locked, this time. Tentatively, long fingers reach out to give the wood a little pull- and hesitates. He swallows. Anathema, from the corner of his eyes seems to be gesturing over and over again the proper way to knock on a door- as if Anthony had just simply forgotten how to. 

_Thanks._ He wants to say. _But my brain hasn’t fried up yet._

_Yet_. His mind supplies, mockingly.

_Crap._

_I’m my own enemy, h_ _e realizes_.

 _Fuck off me._

He breaths. He can do this- it’s a simple affair really. One knocks, apologizes, done. Or that should be it, but Crowley doesn’t want anything to be _done._ He doesn’t want to be done with Aziraphale. He wants to chat him up, and get to know him better. To see more of him, more of his smile, more of that endearing little wiggle his shoulders do that should be illegal. More of that stupid bowtie and his painted nails, his round toes and anxious hand motions, and those blue eyes that look so confused staring at him from the- 

Err. 

Well. 

Looks like it _wasn’t_ locked after all.

Shit.

 _Fuck me sideways_ _._

“Pardon me?!" Aziraphale startles- cheeks flushing bright and _oh shit what the heck is Crowley saying-_

“-Sorry! I didn’t- I don’t- I-" Crowley clacks his jaw shut. The sound audible to Aziraphale, that winces in sympathy. _Ouch_. It hurts, and Crowley might have nicked a bit of skin by the telltale metallic taste of blood that reaches his tongue, but there is a moment of silence- and Crowley grabs it with both hands and all the strenght of his stick-like limbs. 

“You should lock your door. It’s dangerous." No. No, that’s no it- 

Aziraphale blinks, caught unawares. 

“..Uhm, yes. I was about to but I saw someone through the glass and then..." 

Ugh. 

“I don’t mean- I though it was locked, I was going to knock! I swear- I wasn’t- don't!- _Don’t open your door if you got a stranger lurking outside!_ It could be anyone! What if you get- that's not what I- _Not that I was going to_ \- I- I! I- Ugh, ngk ..." The ground doesn’t open to swallow him hole and save him the embarrassment of whatever is going on here- Anathema is nowhere to be seem (traitor, she left him here to sink with the ship and _he’s going to murder her, he’s going to-_ ) Crowley is alone and possibly becoming an alarming shade of red by the second and he will combust in shame in- 

Someone is laughing. 

No. Aziraphale is laughing. 

And laughing _hard_. 

Crowley blinks. 

His mouth clamps shut again. _Yep,_ he thinks, Adam's apple bobbing. 

Definitely nicked something. 

The bookshop owner is doubled up in laughter, an arm bracing his stomach and a hand attempting- unsuccessfully- to hold up the sounds coming out of his mouth. His breath is hitching, and there is moisture gathering at the magical crinkled corners of his eyes. Aziraphale’s laughter is loud, and distorted, and full of life- it leaves Crowley speechless. 

Which is, at the moment, the best. 

He feels struck by lightning. 

_He feels struck by something_. 

After some measure of time none of them can be sure of how to label, the blond regains his ability to speak, face still red from exertion, eyes sparkling with unshed joy. His voice caries an undeniable smiley tilt with it. 

Crowley’s lungs feel tight. 

He might pass out from air deprivation at any moment. 

Details. 

“Oh dear boy, you’re one of a kind." 

So are you. Crowley thinks. _So_ _are_ _you_. 

And at that moment he _knows_. 

He can’t let him go.

_Not without a fight_. 

Crowley inhales audibly- albeit shakily. Sweet oxygen burning all the way down. _Give me strength_.

_Don't let me lose this chance._

An unsteady hand reaches out, dark lensed glasses are removed, folded and hanged on the end of the slight V of his jumper. Unhidden, Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes. 

The blond stills, as if entranced. There are stars hidden in those blue pools, and Crowley can’t help but desire to trace constellations out of them. 

“I seem to have made a fool of myself." He smirks. Starstruck “Been told that’s a common occurrence." 

The other chuckles, giddy. The fact that they seem to always meet in occasions where the red haired is caught by surprise is delightfully amusing. 

“I have not collected enough evidence yet to agree or disagree, I’m afraid." He kips, tone lightheaded and soft. 

_Yet_. Crowley echoes. _Yet_. 

He can’t let him go. 

“I would say I’m sorry for disturbing you but I think the provided entertainment might make up for, and maybe earn me a few more minutes of your time?" 

“One might say that sounds like a very fair exchange." Pink lips tilt, a vision worth of being eternalized in a photograph, a painting- in ink. 

Crowley gives and answering smile back, inhales, and braces himself for what he came here to do. 

This is it.

“I came here to apologize." At that Aziraphale’s brows furrow, lips losing that side lift that had been stuck there- Crowley mourns the loss. 

“But-" He starts, and Crowley cuts him off before he can say more. 

“The day we met, I made a... I made a joke about you being a- a hard of hearing old man." He cringes internally. To say it again out loud pains him. 

Blue eyes widen, a flash of memory- caught unprepared. That same look of hurt- of embarrassment Crowley had seen that day coming and blinking out of existence in a millisecond. Mouth jumping to counterattack- 

Crowley _knew it._

“Oh dear, I’m sure you didn’t mean to-" 

“I didn’t.” Crowley was ready for the denial, the brush off. “I didn’t mean to and I didn’t know but it doesn’t matter." 

“It’s not, it’s not a big deal really-" 

He knows how it works. 

That’s why he can’t stand for it. 

“ _It is for me._ " And maybe is something in the way he says it, some weight of intention that breaks through- but that has Aziraphale’s protests dying in the tip of his tongue. 

“Look, I don’t care if anyone thinks I’m overreacting, and I’m sorry if bringing it up makes you feel self conscious-” because of course it does, it always does “-and if it does I apologize for that too but-” He grits his teeth, jaw forced to move “-I saw it alright." 

Crowley might be projecting, and maybe overstepping, but he doesn’t keep things in like this anymore. 

Is hard work, but can’t back down. 

“I saw the face you made when I said it and even if it was unintentional it still upset you. And that alone deserves a proper apology.” 

His breath shudders out, his eyes searching Aziraphale’s. Blue orbs aflame. 

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale." 

And he means it. God, how he means it. He sighs. 

“I don’t want to seem like the kind of guy that makes a fuss about any small thing.” He ventures. “But I barged into your house, scared the crap out of you and you offered me tea and company and then I said something stupid and I had to- I had to make it right." 

Aziraphale holds Crowley’s eyes, and he tries to communicate how important it was for Aziraphale to understand what he meant, what has been gnawing at Crowley’s insides since he found out. How much he wanted to honestly apologize. 

_It’s important for me._ Golden eyes say. _It’s important to me._

The blond takes it in, lets Crowley’s feelings send their message. His head tilts, his demeanor softening visibly, the start of _something_ gaining life inside him. 

Aziraphale nods. 

_I understand._

“Thank you Crowley.” _I will take your words to heart._

Crowley’s chest lightens. 

He can breath again. 

Aziraphale startles him out of daydream by clearing his throat. 

_Earth to Crowley._

“If I remember correctly,” Aziraphale starts, blue eyes timidly averting his gaze. “it wasn’t me who got rather uh, _startled_ at our first encounter...” 

Crowley snorts, but doesn’t deny it. 

Aziraphale’s answering grin awakes the butterflies residing at the red haired’s belly, fluttering wings battling for attention. 

They will have to wait, as the Angel is the only thing he can think about right now. 

_He can’t let him go._

“That reminds me-” Crowley smoothly adds “-I haven’t quite thanked you for the tea last time.” 

Aziraphale, as always, is quick to react. 

“It was no bother, I rather enjoyed having company." 

“Still, I would like a chance to return the favor..." Crowley hums. _You can do this._ “-so how about lunch? I’ve still to get acquainted to the area, but I believe they have some decent restaurants around...” _If he can only_ _throw_ _the right bait_ “-I’m dying for some french." 

“Oh!” And that seems to be the right word to get Aziraphale to perk up in interest. 

_Yes_ _yes_ _yes_ _._

“There is one at Dean Street-” He gestures, as if to give out directions whilst his mouth runs free “-not far from the theater, I’ve been a handful of times, but not since long. They had those lovely, _lovely crepes_ \- err." He seems to catch himself, a rose tint flooding his face. 

Crowley is smitten. 

He promptly jumps at the opportunity. 

“Let’s say, I pick you up at six and you could point me the way?" 

“Oh, that- that would be nice. I-" He clears his throat, straightens his posture, fans his blush down. “...I would appreciate it very much." 

“That’s settled then.” Crowley beams, unable to hold back the smile that takes over. Has half a mind to stop himself from twirling in the sidewalk. 

Crowley slowly starts a backward descending of the doorsteps. 

“See you at six?" 

“See you at six." Aziraphale agrees. 

Crowley is alight, and blissfully light. 

“Goodnight, Aziraphale.” He waves. Heart barely contained inside his ribcage. 

“Goodnight." Aziraphale echoes. The muted click of a lock following his lead. 

For a minute, Crowley stands in the sidewalk, catching his breath. 

The approaching dusk brings forth the first sights of the evening wind, whispering through his hair. Somewhere across the globe, flowers bloom under freshly risen sunlight. And as seamlessly as most creations in nature ever are, something inside Crowley takes root and blooms too. 

Maybe he won’t murder Anathema today. 

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad I got this out- It's painful when the plot doesn't move as fast as you want it too. Where is my fluff? Where are those ridiculous love declarations I got stocked up in a huge pile? Bring them out!  
> Is like this thing has a life of it's own. Who the heck is responsible for this? Get going, you!


	4. You have to let it happen- The good things in life, you have to let them happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His world was fairly calm, if slightly fuzzy at the edges. 
> 
> A collection of whispers and mumblings, that for a kid like Aziraphale -always so curious and interested on _feeling_ more than anything else- fit just fine. 
> 
> He liked to touch, and taste- feel the texture of fabric, of paper and petals- surfaces could be so _soft or grainy or silky._ There was so much going on around on a daily basis to not be distracted by it all. The smell of damp bark coming through the window after rainy afternoons, the spiciness hanging in the air that meant _they were having gingerbread for tea time later._ Ah, the sharp tang of ink on paper. 
> 
> Aziraphale swears he could _taste it_ somedays- at the right tip of his tongue, sticking to the soft flesh of his gums. 
> 
> He basked in flavors and scents and textures and the peacefulness of the shop and its vast collection of knick-knacks _‘your father did have this odd attraction to anything vaguely peculiar’._ He didn’t even pay much attention to sounds really, his other senses too busy self-indulging in all the other bits. 
> 
> That was, until _it happened._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an Aziraphale POV! (I didn't plan it, tbh. My hands did a thing.)
> 
> I was sure the fluff was coming next- but no. Aziraphale had other ideas.
> 
> My. God.  
>  _Why you must test me so._
> 
> So have a bit of Aziraphale's past. It doesn't explain much-(or does it???) just puts some things into perspective.  
> Anyone knows that feeling when you think Crowley is the one fighting a battle and discover Aziraphale has yet to win a single one?  
> ..no?
> 
> I will get in details later.  
> Eventually.
> 
> Did I know this was going to happen?  
>  _Absolutely fucking not._
> 
> Send him love.  
> *Sings Take a Chance on Me from ABBA in an eternal loop*

Aziraphale spent his youth much in the same way as he spends his days now- with a book and a cup of cocoa- in his family’s shop. 

Well, _not exactly_ the same way. 

Now he doesn't have a curfew, makes his own money, has regular manicure appointments and can have as _many tiny pinkish marshmallows_ _as he pleases_ \- Little victories, signs of independency and sublime freedom.

He has come a long way.

And has a long long way to go still.

Living here, surrounded by everything that gives him comfort, Aziraphale has his own little Eden, where he can enjoy his books and work without any distractions if he so desires. Most of the time his hearing is a faraway thing, one he can simply choose to overlook with little to no consequences. All the initial inconveniences being way more manageable now, than he remembers them being perceived as in the past. 

Aziraphale’s hearing was... _muffled_. 

Not that he personally noticed, earlier on. 

_Like the way a song might sound from across a closed door_ \- Or at least that’s what the Doctors said. 

He couldn’t really fit that image in his head. Funny how their analogies usually did nothing to help put things in his perspective, (not really the most astounding performance from a professional, if you ask him). He had never been able to hear anything _actually_ being said across a closed door. He didn’t think it was _possible_. Although, he _could_ sympathize with the idea of having a barrier obstructing communication between him and his peers. 

It was not a physical one, but was _there_ , nonetheless- _between him and his aunt, when she would_ _insist_ _he ‘speak out boy, I can’t hear your mumbling’- between him and his uncle when he was scolded for using his ‘outside voice’ unnecessarily-_

As a child, it was hard to find balance, to adapt to some rules he couldn’t entirely comprehend. 

It was easier to be quiet. 

But being quiet isn’t always the best option. 

_Even when, more often than not, it might feel like the only available option-_

One grows to know better, eventually. 

Doesn’t mean it makes it any easier. 

_Communication_ \- that had been his personal challenge for as long as he can remember. To interpret a received message correctly and answer accordingly, fill in gaps, to not let the flow of the conversation die on you. It was a required skill, and in certain environments a critical one. 

His family wasn’t great at communicating. Not that they were completely hopeless at it or that they didn’t talk- gosh, they were really good at expressing their opinions without holding anything back- they could be direct, brutally honest conversationalists. But talking freely doesn’t obrigatorily make one a good communicator. 

_Communication is a two-way road_. 

One can’t just simply _talk_ and _not listen_ when communicating. 

His family _wasn’t good_ at listening, and Aziraphale was even _worse_ at making himself heard. 

They all had their on dinamic. Aziraphale was as close to his uncles as it was proper to be, living under the same roof- they were busy, and his cousin Gabriel wasn’t interested in entertaining his company unless it was strictly necessary. As for the rest of his family, he actively avoided interactions with them- mingling just enough to not be perceived as openly rude- fulfilling his role in whatever manner required of him as quickly and efficiently as possible so he could politely excuse himself and _get out of the way_. Not that he was the one to primarily instigate all the _avoiding_ \- but in all fairness, Aziraphale wasn’t explicitly _complaining_.

Of his parents, he remembers nothing. His father was gone too soon and his Mom had died at childbirth. Tragic, but not much of a perceived loss. 

Aziraphale never really missed them, as it was hard to miss something you never remembered having. 

Also hard to noticed you’re _missing something_ you never completely had. 

In his years of experience in communicating, Aziraphale has been well aware that when one part is unwilling, communication becomes impossible to achieve. A proficient communicator, cannot only skillfully _convey_ their beliefs effortlessly, but has freedom to choose what to absorb and exchange, _filter_ what to acknowledge and completely reject what they deem unimportant.

There is much one can accomplish with some competent communication skills. 

Aziraphale is _rubbish_ at it. 

And that is not always a problem, if one knows to avoid- _showing weakness, being vulnerable_ ~~-~~ certain topics and situations. In his line of work, he rarely needs to talk about anything not related to the job except to inquire about mundane things as the weather or some recent event as a conversation starter. He doesn’t even need to keep the shop open- He’s a brilliant, successful translator and hes in a good enough place to live comfortably. 

He doesn’t even _need_ to keep the shop open. 

But that would mean never really having anyone around, besides the odd Gabriel or Scholar visit. 

_Never._

He admits the thought is not the most appealing. 

He doesn’t _need_ to keep the shop open. 

He _doesn’t_ , really. 

But if he didn’t, things like this would never happen to him. 

_“Fuck me sideways.”_

And somethings in life, Aziraphale has learned, are just that odd kind of ineffable. 

\--- 

The first impression Aziraphale had of Crowley, was that he smelt like flowers and buttered bread. Which is, by itself, comfortingly appealing and not at all intimidating. 

If a bit unconventional, for someone... as peculiar looking as him. 

Unusual yes, but not entirely without precedent. 

Aziraphale is not one to put labels on people, not without genuine evidence to support his opinions. It's not _actually labelling_ if it's _explicit,_ is what he likes to keep in mind. 

So if after a long look the blond says those jeans of his do come with a neon sticker that says ' _not_ straight'- is because one needs nothing more than a pair of functional eyes to state the obvious. 

Aziraphale knows first impressions can be misleading, but no one can disregard the fact they also carry some intrinsic aspects of one's true character. 

Crowley smelled like flowers and bread. Crowley had flaming red hair, inked skin, a not-straight pair of jeans and gleaming jewelry speckled here and there. 

He was also a ~~fairy~~ fairly clumsy, and jumpy individual. 

There is not to say Aziraphale wasn’t surprised to see an unexpected visitor at his place. He was startled by his presence yes, but Aziraphale was also very used to being startled. Even though one might think such appearance of a stranger should seriously alarm him, one might argue that when one dreads his usual expected visitors as much as Aziraphale does, a stranger is a very welcomed reprise. 

Looking at the flushed being fussing over a box of pastries in his work office, Aziraphale is curious. 

And he is not anything but a very indulgent individual that does not just abstain from satiating his needs. He had probably earned a treat- _and Crowley can certainly be one, if Aziraphale can get him to just sit down and look pretty_ \- the blond reasons. He had spent an awful amount of time working this past week. A break was in order. 

He just needed to ensure the company. 

So Aziraphale did what one does when they need to gather information in a subtle manner, with minimal effort necessary and a quite high probability of not being refused. 

He makes tea. 

_And if he used the red_ _haired’s_ _distraction to his favor, he won’t admit to it._

It’s a highly successful affair. 

Crowley was enchanting. Definitely someone that would stand out in a crowd just by his looks, but also the way he moved, and dressed, and spoke- and that was just the first layer. Under the surface, the way he nervously touched his arms, the easy banter, the alluring wit, the timely tump tump of an anxious leg (definitelly some frayed wires on this one, and Aziraphale finds it refreshingly endearing), the sneaky looks over dark lenses, the shaky fingers and secretive smiles. 

When he finally manages to rile him up enough that he chokes- _he blushes beautifully-_

Aziraphale is in awe, and really, _really_ interested. 

And that’s why he had to go and set himself up for failure. 

_Good work, you pathetic excuse of a person._

_“It just got to a point where I thought you were either dead or really hard of hearing.”_

Instinct springs up, an itch under his skin. 

_You know It will only hurt more later_. 

The truth doesn’t prevent the words to comes out, though. 

_“Ah- well. Those seem like, err, the most reasonable conclusions to come to, don’t they?”_

Why didn’t I say something then? He would question, angry and deeply disappointed at himself. _That's why you keep the aid on_ \- to avoid _this_.

You should say something _._

_You should say something._

Is just like him, really. 

To never say anything when it matters. 

_\---_

They didn’t notice the signs early on. 

He was just the kind to be naturally daydreaming. _‘A bit aloof, that child, always so distracted, easily startled, jumpy'_ \- nothing that couldn’t be attributed as normal behavior for a shy, reclusive, young Aziraphale. 

It was _easy_ to miss. 

He was fine. 

Truly. 

His world was fairly calm, if slightly fuzzy at the edges. 

A collection of whispers and mumblings, that for a kid like Aziraphale -always so curious and interested on _feeling_ more than anything else- fit just fine. 

He liked to touch, and taste- feel the texture of fabric, of paper and petals- surfaces could be _so soft or grainy or silky._ There was so much going on around on a daily basis to not be distracted by it all. The smell of damp bark coming through the window after rainy afternoons, the spiciness hanging in the air that meant _they were having gingerbread for tea time later_. Ah, the sharp tang of ink on paper. 

Aziraphale swears he could _taste it_ somedays- at the right tip of his tongue, sticking to the soft flesh of his gums. 

He basked in flavors and scents and textures and the peacefulness of the shop and its vast collection of knick-knacks _‘your father did have this odd attraction to anything vaguely peculiar’._ He didn’t even pay much attention to sounds really, his other senses too busy self-indulging in all the other bits. 

That was, until _it happened_. 

It was September, he remembers. _A chilly Saturday morning._

Vivaldi’s _Storm_ was thrumming softly from an old wood tabletop radio, sturdy, smelled relaxingly of pine- one of his favorites from their collection. 

‘ _Autumn has just officially begun.’_ his aunt quipped, sausages sizzling on seasoned butter- _dill, thyme, garlic_. Gabriel munching furiously on a scone next chair over. A perfect mundane day. 

Aziraphale had this _humming_ going on for a few days now- not much as a severe headache, but something not unlike a ringing, _faint but persistent_ , settled as a pinch between his brows. 

It wasn’t enough of a problem worth bothering anyone for, really. 

_Little_ was enough of a problem worth bothering someone for, nowadays. 

And when he says _‘worth it’_... 

Well. 

Besides, he’s just recovering from that inconvenient cold now. It could be related. 

It’s just a small thing, anyways. 

The ringing would go up and die down- like the static buzz of a radio trying unsuccessfully to connect to a station. 

He was about to grab an apple, shivering at the chilling morning breeze coming from the open window- a drop of perspiration running cold down the curve of his brow- when the buzzing just went on a crescendo up up _up._ He flinched- the spike of pain just enough to get a reaction out of him- but thankfully it didn’t last long. A crack of sensation, life flicking a wrist- our snapping your fingers. 

He blinked. Fair eyelashes fanning slightly fatty cheeks in consideration. His breath slowing down. It stopped. 

An unnerving quietness settled. 

Aziraphale’s forehead scrunched up once more. 

It stopped. 

But so did everything else. 

Silence. 

No background music, or the pop of frying butter, just this weird eerie silence. 

There was an unanticipated pressure on his left shoulder and Aziraphale instinctively jumped, startled- so did his aunt- fresh plate of sausages slipping and crashing to the floor with a- 

_Silence_. 

The floorboards shuddered faintly under his shoes, a dull thud, tutter-like vibration. No ear-splitting shattering sound commonly reserved for fine china. Blue eyes searching and locking on the _definitely broken_ irregular sharps of porcelain. 

_Silence._

His heart stuttered; lungs hitched. 

Aziraphale screamed. 

He couldn’t hear that either. 

That was just a scare- after, a sobbing Aziraphale was rushed into a clinic- bewildered aunt and shell shocked Gabriel in town. The infection was treated and after a few days some of his hearing functions stabilized. It wasn’t the same, mind you- but it never really was that good to begin with right? His right ear, the one most debilitated, was constantly jostling him up at random intervals- a bolt of that same cringe worth ringing making him scowl in discomfort. Aziraphale can’t even say if he felt disappointed or relieved when it started faltering, periods of complete deafness getting longer and longer until stopping altogether a few years later. With the help of an aid, his left ear kept some functionality, something around forty-fifty capacity. He's grateful for having at least that much, but also has come to learn to appreciate and work around relying on his other senses. 

Contrary to his hearing, they never failed him before. 

“You can’t control it.” His aunt related. Once again going over the Doctor’s prognosis, for Aziraphale’s sake. “We can’t do much about it. It’s just how it is." 

He had an ear infection- but that was just some random complication. _Genetics,_ they had said- _his mother’s side, most likely_ \- they would come to explain later. He was _predisposed_ to hearing loss, it’s the kind of condition that _would progress with or without intervention_ \- she would add. It was _unavoidable_. Delayable but an _inevitability_ nonetheless. 

Even if they had caught it earlier on- 

_It wouldn’t have changed anything._ He would come to remind himself. 

_‘You can’t control it.’_

_‘Is just how it is.’_

_It wouldn’t have changed anything._

_\---_

He just _couldn’t_ say it. 

As he watched Crowley leave, sunlight glittering over the delicate strands of hair. Golden gaze obscured by the protective barrier of his glasses, hips swinging gracefully as he went. 

He kept quiet. 

How does one say they are an actual hard of hearing old bloke without feeling like a- like a- 

How does one say it? 

Years and years and he was still a _coward_. 

So he took the coward’s way out, took his aid out of the drawer and set up an emergency appointment with his Doctor for the next morning.

 _Let him just find out on his own._

Somewhere inside him, he ached. 

_You know It’s only going to get worse._

_"Oh, cool."_

_'This is a disaster'_ his sour thoughts would say. _'There was definitely something off between them after that. How can he possibly fix this?'_

Apprehensive thoughts swirling in his chest, Aziraphale tries to focus on the task of helping Mrs Helena. A familiar bitter taste stuck behind his teeth- the taste of _regret_. 

He should have said something earlier. 

_It will only hurt more._

Aziraphale is a coward. 

But then who could have predicted someone like Crowley would be so- 

_“I don’t mean- I_ _though_ _it was locked, I was going to knock! I swear- I wasn’t-_ _don't!-_ _Don’t open your door if you got a stranger lurking outside!_ _It could be anyone! What if you get- that's not what I-_ _Not that I was going to_ _\- I- I! I- Ugh,_ _ngk_ _..."_

-remarkable. 

_"Oh_ _dear boy, you’re one of a kind."_

Say something. 

_“I came here to apologize."_

Say something. 

_“The day we met, I made a... I made a joke about you being a- a hard of hearing old man."_

Say something, **now**. 

_“Oh dear, I’m sure you didn’t mean to-"_

Wrong. 

_“I didn’t.”_

It’s not your fault, I also- 

_“It’s not, it’s not a big deal really-"_

Why can’t he- even though he wants so much to- 

“- _I saw it alright._ " 

-be as brave as Crowley.

_"I’m sorry,_ _Aziraphale_ _."_

I'm sorry too.

Aziraphale is a coward.

 _“...I had to make it right."_

But Crowley isn’t. 

And Aziraphale is filled with shame- for letting Crowley take the full blame, when the burden should be shared between them both. 

_I should have said something._

He wants to apologize too. He wants to be able to talk about things that make him feel- 

But for now he can’t. 

_I’m a coward._

And even though he thinks he will come to find out hes undeserving of this, he can't stop thinking about those golden eyes and all their astounding conviction, that breathtaking _strength._

If he could maybe, just maybe, come to have a tiny bit of that-

- _just a little bit-_

-maybe he could _change things_.

He can't let this chance go.

_He can't._

So if he may be so presumptuous to borrow some of it, and ask him to be brave for them both now- 

_-for just a little longer._

I wanna learn with you- 

_I understand._

_“Thank_ _you Crowley_ _.”_ _I will take your words to heart._

_-_ I want to grow to be brave too. 

_“See you at six."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I go so Angsty? How did this happen? No one will believe me when I say this is, at heart, a godamned fluffy fucking fic.
> 
> Oi oi oi-!!!! My stash of tooth-rotting sweetness is getting dusty here! *honks furiously at M25 traffic*
> 
> Get a wiggle on.


	5. You look so beautiful it makes me forget everything else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you _think_ you’re doing?” Inquires Anathema, barging into his room. 
> 
> “I’m choosing my outfit. Obviously.” Bony hands absentminded, gesturing at the piles of clothes scattered all over the floor. _For my date._ He wants to say, chest feeling tight. _For my date with Aziraphale._
> 
> _Aziraphale. Date._
> 
> Crowley squirms. 
> 
> _“Obviously.”_ The brunette huffs, sounding mildly annoyed. Why would she be annoyed? Crowley has got a date, is not time for anyone to be annoyed.
> 
> “I can see that, but with _Newt?”_
> 
> Aaah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely lost my sense of time. I was supposed to post this before the 14th but guess what? Me forgot. Not an excuse but my formatting went berserk and I had to go over the whole thing editing (AGAIN) before posting and at one point I felt like crying but hey here it is!
> 
> I have never been on a date so I was just winging it. All my notes said was 'here happens date, and this needs to occur, but I don't know how we get there, good luck?' and honestly, I wanna punch myself.  
> I'm proud to say there is no angst (or is there??) this chapter (Halleluja's can be heard in the background). I can't promise anything for the next one though. Sometimes the hands just go all wiggly wiggly you know?
> 
> I just want them to be an item already!
> 
> Enjoy their first date, it will probably not happen again like this, I don't think we will have another one, I can't write dates. Help.

“What do you _think_ you’re doing?” Inquires Anathema, barging into his room. 

“I’m choosing my outfit. Obviously.” Bony hands absentminded, gesturing at the piles of clothes scattered all over the floor. _For my date._ He wants to say, chest feeling tight. _For my date with_ _Aziraphale_ _._

_Aziraphale_. _Date._

Crowley squirms. 

“ _Obviously._ ” The brunette huffs, sounding mildly annoyed. Why would she be annoyed? Crowley has got a _date_ , is not time for anyone to be _annoyed._

“I can see that, but with _Newt?_ ” 

Aaah. 

That does makes sense now. Crowley tilts his neck a bit to the side, reasoning. 

“He can be awfully helpful." 

At the cue, said helper surges out of the walk-in closet, bringing forth a pair of dark khaki trousers, hesitantly presenting them to Crowley. 

“What do you think I am? A bloody heterosexual?!" The red-haired sneers. Newt scuttles off in a hurry. 

Anathema just stares. 

Crowley shrugs. 

“Process of elimination. Picking the bad ones outta the crop and all that, ‘unno?" 

Right. 

_Right_ _._

“You kidnapped newt at _seven am_ on a goddamned _sunday_ , to help you _not pick up_ your outfit for a date you have to get ready in-" she calculates “- _seven hours?!_ " 

The red-haired frowns, pondering. 

“Yes? I didn’t actually kidnap him though-” that’s a bit unfair, Crowley left her a note “-I sent you a _text._ " That's the twenty-first century equivalent of a note, anyways. 

Now, not to say Crowley is easily infatuated, but Aziraphale’s charm hit him in the face like a furiously striked baseball no one saw coming, and even though that doesn’t explain everything it can put some light into why he sounds a bit off in the head. 

That, or he hit his head too hard that day he fell on the bookshop. 

_Or_ , some would argue, _that’s just how he is_. 

The point is- just the thought of the angel makes his legs want to go all noodle-y. 

And gives him a milkshaked excuse of a brain. 

Hence, the struggle.

 _'That's not the only part you should be paying attention to'_ Anathema wants to state, but she can already feel a headache building up. Never a dull day with Crowley, never a dull day. 

“I said _I_ was going to help." 

“That’s why I let you sleep, so you would be rested for when we had to _actually_ pick some clothes from the ones I had selected." The expression he makes adds an inaudible ' _Duh_ _’_ to the end of the sentence, as if to say ' _do I_ _really_ _have_ _to_ _explain_ _every_ _single bit_ _to_ _you_ _?_ _Honey_ _,_ _you should_ _know_ _my_ _ways'_ but actually means _'I was too anxious and didn't want to be alone but also didn't want to bother you so I got your fiancé instead'_ and the brunette looks up, desperately begging her ancestors for guidance. 

Yesterday, when a starry-eyed Anthony had burst back into the shop with a shout of _‘ Can I get a wahoo?!'_ Anathema had hugged and high-fived his overly energetic friend, excitement a shared thing between them. Crowley was still somehow stunned by how things had played off, limbs all shaky with leftover adrenaline, so she had enthusiastically offered to help him out the next day, to work on his _‘out to woo my man’_ scheme at best or to give him a bit of girl support, at least. 

Both of them knew he couldn’t sit still long enough to paint his own nails, and that’s what friends are here for. 

Watching as he left- a humming not unlike a dozen bees following his electrifying aura and staining his path all colours- until the Bentley was out of sight, Anathema made a mental list of what she would need to take to his place, to help set him up for a successful evening. 

Now, amidst the testing ordeal of this present moment, her mother’s words ring at the forethought of her mind _‘_ _when_ _in_ _duress_ _,_ _remember_ _:_ _strangling_ _is_ _not_ _the_ _solution_ _'._

Never a dull day with you, never a dull day indeed. 

“You’re mental.” She breathes out, a hint of incredulous laughter at the back of her tongue ' _you’re mental and sometimes you make me feel like I have a problem daughter I desperately want to marry off so their husband has to deal with all of this instead of me-_ ’ and this is her life, with her ridiculous, mad hat of a best friend- and she wouldn’t change it for anything. 

“Did you even sleep?" She decides to ask instead, to focus on what is important now. 

She takes notion of the tired slump of his shoulders, the messy tied-up hair, hastily rolled up sleeves and twitchy fingers. Observes the dark shadow under his eyes- and how they stand out in his pale semblant- freckles galore. 

He gives her a look somewhere between antsy, excited and _terrified_ _._

Of course. She softens. 

“Of course you didn’t." 

Crowley crumbles. 

“For the love of-" She rushes to her friend. 

“I have yet to have this date and I’m already a mess." Crowley laughs, a hitched sound. His chest felt full, and he was loose with it. 

After that loathing lead-like weight at the pit of his stomach had been replaced by an overworking heart and a thousand fluttering wings battling in the made-up container that was his ribcage, Crowley has been feeling like a balloon floating in a different plane of reality. 

To make that step, to let the words spill out of his mouth through the paralyzing fear rattling his bones- it had been terrifying but liberating- a sensation he had been learning to embrace. 

Living in fear, holding back, not being honest- those old habits he was unwilling to return to- he had grown wary and burnt out of playing a character, of pulling up a façade and just never permitting himself to be out there, to be a better person than his fears allowed him to. 

Aziraphale had heard him, and now they were going _somewhere_ , together, and that was another hard-earned privilege he was damn well going to relish on. 

Following ahead, pushing forward. 

Speak out, let your feelings be heard- it's okay to make mistakes- _own up to them, grow better._

And he was. Small movements, crawly like. 

_Pushing_ _forward_ _._

“Come on Anthony, let’s go slow yeah? It’s just the nerves." Anathema prods. Crowley snorts. It is the nerves yes, he knows. 

And his oldest friend anxiety- that clingy wanker. 

“You need some food, and a nap- then we can look at this objectively okay? Body and mind equilibrium and all that jazz." She gestures for him to get up, long legs all wobbly looking- she wonders, as always, how does he operate that- and nudges him in the kitchen’s direction. 

“Newt!” She calls. “Come here- oh no, that jacket is _hideous_ just put it back- we are having breakfast, or brunch- whatever." 

Crowley’s shoulders roll. Lips lifting at the corners. 

“Told ‘ya he was good at not choosing stuff." 

Anathema huffs. Alright, alright. 

“Food first, snark later." 

The red-haired mumbles, not really warmed up to the idea. If he is being honest, his stomach feels like a rollercoaster. 

Luckily, Anathema is nothing if incredible prepared to cater to her moody problem child. 

“I brought some blueberries, you know, for pancakes." 

The red-haired's posture changes, but he doesn’t utter a word. 

“I will make them _really_ fluffy." Her hip casually bumping one of his long legs, persuasive. 

Crowley’s left eyebrow twitches, rollercoaster cars slowing to a stop. 

“I guess... I could have some." 

“You will have a plate full and nothing less, otherwise I’m not letting you out tonight to see this boy you’re so smitten with." She jokes, with mother-like mirth. 

“I’m not smitten." He denies, high pitched. 

_You totally are._

_“Oh dear.”_ Anathema mocks, just for the sake of seeing the impossibly murdering look he throws at her as he rushes ahead. Just before he makes a turn in the hallway, her eyes catch sight of the contour of his ears, their very tips an alarming vibrant red. 

_See? Whipped._

The brunette bites her bottom lip, to keep her smile at bay. 

He’s eating every single thing she puts in front of him, and that's that. 

\--- 

The nap was a good idea, and a much, much needed enterprise, Crowley has to admit. 

He feels better, less on the edge of a heart failure episode. He hasn’t been in a real date for a while now, last one with a guy he though had some fun bite but ended up being _all bite_ (and rabies) so he gently excused himself and went on an indefinite dating hiatus. 

Aziraphale has hit him in a way he hadn’t been hit before, got seared to his retinas in a glow of angelic light, an inexplicable force, a feeling that is out of his control. A splash of almost ethereal blue, like the colour had just dripped from the sky directly into him.

Crowley was draw to him, to that voice, that easy smile, his tempting figure. Aziraphale felt like an unassuming vessel, full of possible mysterious riches- of something unusual- 

Something he hasn’t yet been able to assess fully, but has every intention to. 

_I_ _want_ _to_ _know_ _who_ _you_ _are,_ _under_ _all_ _that_ _._

But that is far ahead, he's got more pressing matters at hand. 

“I can’t decide." 

“They are essentially the same shirt, Anthony." 

He doesn’t agree. 

“Not at all, the fabric is completely different." Head shaking, side to side- and she says _he_ doesn't understand fashion- his hand patting one of the black button ups. 

“You see, this one is soft linen, it’s tame and says ‘professional, I’m cool as a cucumber, not spooky' and this one-" index finger pointed at the second one “-it’s silk, it reflects at certain angles and subtly says ‘eyes on me, don’t you wanna feel how smooth-' what am I even-” He jumps, eyes rolling as he grabs the silk shirt. “Bin the other one, this is it." 

Anathema shakes her head, as Crowley puts the shirt on and stands by the full mirror. Her job here is almost done, her friend is fed and rested, seems relaxed and less of a tower ready to crumble at the slightest gust of wind. 

_You’re welcome, world._

“That’s my handsome stud.” She coos, avoiding the clothes Crowley throws at her in retaliation. Crowley will always be eye catching, in his own way, no matter what he does- is just how he is, she thinks. The hair, the tattoos and those dramatic shades of his. 

He will always be a magnet, but them, why not treat themselves on enhancing it to the next level? 

Again, _you’re welcome,_ world. 

It was a great call, swapping the jeans for snug well pressed trousers- Anathema takes full credit for that one- the modest heels of his shoes are there solely for the purpose of giving his backside a subtle lift that works wonders. Is what brings out that extra swing of hips, what unconsciously sets his shoulders back, straightening his spine a notch. 

It cuts a sure presence. 

It suits him. 

“How do you feel?" She asks, as he takes in the whole assemble. 

Crowley may be seen as a bit vain, to some people, but personally he has a different take on things.

Spending money on oneself and not thinking of it as a waste is a luxury not many can partake in, and it has nothing to do with financial power and status, and more to do with self-worth. 

Is not like he’s an egotistical self-absorbed arrogant twat- there is a difference in thinking the appearance is what ultimately defines you and working on your looks to reflect how one feels about themselves- he likes quality, he likes having nice things and he likes putting them on and feeling comfortable in his own skin. Is more about _recognizing_ his own value and thereof treating himself to pretty things than buying expensive shit to _add_ value. 

Caring about the way he looks gives him confidence- is self-care, plain and simple- is brushing your teeth and hair every day because that’s healthy and not because society wants you to. 

So he indulges on appealing textures and fits that go well on his figure, and he polishes his jewelry and gives himself weekly self-care routines and makes sure to not avoid his own reflection. The clothes and the hair and the piercings and the great expanse of unmarked or otherwise ink licked skin- all that makes this his domain, his body, his painfully built haven- he takes it in and he thrives. 

_‘_ _How_ _do_ _you_ _feel_ _.'_

In the end, that’s all that matters. 

He looks at the mirror, checks himself in some different angles and nods. 

“Mmm mmm, really good." 

“I think so too.” Anathema beams. “Let me roll up those sleeves for you- you know more than me not to underestimate the power of exposed forearms. It will be an extra trick.” _F_ _or luck_ , she would add- except, they are not playing with room to lose today. 

They are playing to win. 

She folds the sleeves, artsy shapes inked on sandy skin greeting the world. As he moves, the light catches the fabric, creating reflective patches at certain spots. She steps back, admires the complete piece, smiles, immensely pleased. 

“Fell won’t know what hit him." 

\--- 

Anathema fusses over him on the drive to Soho- talking and bantering- jabbing jokes at Newt to keep him distracted. It helps, but soon enough he’s parking at the store front and the couple is waving him off, a chorus of _‘get ‘_ _im_ _tiger'_ fading off as they go inside the building, leaving Crowley alone to worry at the pavement. 

Well, fuck. 

He itches, and barely resists biting his nails and ruining the fresh layer of varnish on them- antsy to do something- he’s glad for tying his hair in a half bun, otherwise he probably wouldn’t be able to avoid messing it up by running his hands all over it. 

_Keep cool._ Crowley tells himself, staring at his reflection in the Bentley’s window. _That’s what ye got to do, keep cool._

The tiny black pointer in his watch ticks-tacks at five-to-six and Crowley has to psych himself to unstick his hands from the Bentley’s comforting frame and walk to the porch. The chilly evening air prickles his skin, fingertips growing pink. He left his jacket inside the car but can’t make himself turn back to collect it. 

The wind whistles past him and he shivers. 

This is not what Crowley meant with _‘keep cool’_ but alright. _If that’s how he has to play_ , he thinks, as he stares at the familiar door, _he will roll with it._

A small puff of air leaves his mouth, a faint cloud of condensation. _It's just a date, nothing you haven't done before._ He reasons. _But not with him,_ his brain argues, _not with him and not with anyone even close to being like him_. 

Crowley’s chest does a backflip thingy, where his organs suddenly forget how to properly function and his brain acts likes is not his business to fix it. 

_Hello anxiety, glad to see you- kindly fuck off will_ _ya_ _?_

That’s an old move and Crowley is not in the mood to entertain it- better knock on that door before his nerves get the best of him- so he goes for it, swallowing thick. His knuckles barely brush the wood, and the door slowly swings open. 

“I know you said not to open the door," the soothing tone rings, blond hair surging through the gap, followed by a stocky body "but if it helps, I did check the spy hole, this time." Aziraphale says, a glint in his eyes. 

The red-haired blinks, but doesn’t startle, mercifully. All thoughts of malfunctioning body parts fleeing his mind- or, most accurately- all thoughts fleeing his mind, period. 

Crowley takes in his face, his round nose, the angelical curls of his blond hair. He catches sight of the red and black of the snake peeking out from under a stray lock- feeling buzzed- he wants to brush it off, cup that jaw with his hands. His eyes survey the tartan bowtie, the cream color-coded outfit that wouldn’t be misplaced in a gentleman two centuries back and still fits him so well, anyways. Examines the gold shine of a chain, a concealed time piece, and a polished signet ring. That shade of baby blue nail polish, that just amazes him so. 

He feels entranced, and as he slowly regains awareness, notices Aziraphale’s own appreciative gaze, the stretched seconds neither one of them seems to breathe, just taking each other in. 

Crowley’s lips curl up. 

“Hello, Aziraphale." He says, naturally soft, short of breath. 

“Hello Crowley," the blond follows, even softer, “you look beautiful, my dear." 

Crowley looks at him, air stuck in his lungs, and he feels on fire. _Beautiful,_ he said, those eyes blue and glittering. _If I kissed you, would it burn?_ He wonders, flames licking his insides. _Would my lips sear the flesh of yours?_ _A_ _sizzingly_ _sound lifting on contact?_ Crowley shivers, goose bumps like a wave up the skin of his neck, down his exposed forearms. White pointed teeth worrying his bottom lip. 

Deliberately or not, Aziraphale follows the motion with his eyes. Pink muscle peaking out to moisture his own flesh. 

_Holy mother of-_

“Thank you," the red-haired accepts, chest ready to burst, “you look handsome too.” Those full lips are sinful, and Crowley would gladly go to hell if it means he could taste them. “Shall we go? I’m hungry enough to eat you." 

“Pardon?" Aziraphale asks, sounding far away himself, mesmerized. 

“I mean- I'm ready to eat! You’re probably too, I mean, hungry. You’re probably hungry too. To eat." Fuck. The red-haired had hoped to manage more than five minutes before he started sounding like someone which brain has been put into a _blender_. Where are the antibodies? His immune system is in shambles, and it needs to start working right the fuck now. 

Aziraphale hums, a dragged sound, long enough to be either a product of distraction or deliberate intention, and the thought shakes all of Crowley’s bones, has a shiver running down from nape to tail bone. 

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale agrees, finally, adding a playful tilt of his head, a dark, heated undertone to it “ _starving._ " 

Crowley’s mouth is suddenly too dry, tongue stuck to the back of his teeth. He can’t possible form any coherent sentences so he settles for something simple. 

“Ngk." 

Truth be told, it is not a real sentence, but is all he can manage and still _something_. 

Try to work with two functioning brain cells and them come back to judge him, _I_ _dare_ _you_. 

Both men go down the steps to the Bentley parked just a few paces from them, Aziraphale a firm presence to his right. Crowley opens the door for him, ushering him inside, and uses the few seconds it takes him to go around to the drivers’ side to remind himself how to _fucking breathe_. 

Once he is settled inside, there is no room to hide. Aziraphale is there, all plush curves and warm body, and hell, Crowley is _screwed_. 

He swallows. Tries to moisture his throat enough to risk speaking. 

“All set?" He checks, making sure the seatbelts are on. Aziraphale nods, that upturned lip making Crowley wonder how long he can keep up with his whole body full-on crashing every time the blond does as much as look his way. 

Anthony.exe is struggling to keep him running over the onslaught of whatever ethereal force Mr. Fell is, but Crowley can’t really say he minds it though. 

Not completely. 

“Where are we going? Should I get my GPS on?" 

Aziraphale shakes his head, curls bouncing. _Ugh._ Distracting, really distracting- Crowley decides to focus on getting the car out of park before he does something as embarrassing as staring. Or drooling. 

“No need, I can tell you where to go.” _You_ _can_ _tell_ _me_ _where_ _to_ _go_ _yes_ , Crowley's mind prompts, but he pushes the though aside and pays attention to Aziraphale, who proceeds to give him a few directions as they finally join the traffic. 

_Control_ _yourself_ _,_ _you_ _horny_ _dog._

“It’s a good little place, this restaurant. A bit hidden but it can gather quite a crowd on weekends." The blond carries on, filling the enclosed space of the Bentley with his easy chat. Bless this man ‘cause Crowley is still rebooting. 

"Luckily we are starting the evening earlier than most patrons so we should be alright." Crowley doesn’t want to risk looking back or talking while he's obviously flustered so he just makes a few noises to let it clear he is listening. _Slowly,_ he tells himself, _slowly and steady._

Fortunately, Aziraphale takes the encouragement as it is and keeps going. 

“First time I went there was quite the wait," he follows, “but the food is well worth the time spent. Not many places can make crêpes as good, outside of France." 

“France? You’ve been?" _Good, slowly, steady_. 

“A handful of times. For work purposes only, but I managed to sneak out- err, make some time for trips to the city." 

Crowley doesn’t miss the slip. 

“Sneaking out of work for a bit of fun on the side, I see." A wicked glint in his eyes, the corner of his mouth pulls up, showing teeth. 

_Teasing_ _._ Now, _that_ he can do with less than a half functioning brain. 

Aziraphale plays with his bowtie, neck colouring, but Crowley can't do more than risk a glance to evaluate his reaction. 

_Tsk, bloody safe driving rubbish._

“Well," Aziraphale articulates, clearing his throat “one must enjoy themselves when presented with the opportunity.” Hmm. “And there is nothing wrong with it as long as one doesn’t go too far.” He sounds overtly composed, the tone of someone that speaks out of personal experience. A pierced eyebrow lifts, intrigued. With a lower voice, Aziraphale adds. “The French are not the most amenable people though, if I must be honest." 

Crowley’s trouble maker sense beep-beeps, he perks up. 

“Ooh, oi oi why do I feel there’s a story in that?" 

This time, Aziraphale squirms, face flushing. He doesn’t elaborate, looking out the window for a way out, noticing the familiar neighbourhood. Latching at the opportunity he’s presented, he readily shakes a hand to indicate a parking lot a few meters ahead. 

Crowley wants to push, but has to drop it in favour of finding them a spot. 

Let’s put a pin on that, for later. 

Is a short ten-minute walk to the restaurant from the parking lot. The place is sort of hidden- a side door going down a set of stairs on an alley-like corner- between two other restaurants. As Aziraphale predicted, it isn’t full, but is quite close to. The lights are dimmed and the atmosphere is really casual, the temperature comfortable enough that Crowley doesn’t regret leaving his jacket behind (again, why did he even bring it?) as they are directed to a cosy corner table. 

The waiter seems to recognize Aziraphale, and they exchange a few friendly words before the young gent fills them each a glass of water and excuses himself with a gentle ' _I will be back shortly to take your orders'_. 

“Nice place.” Crowley compliments. And it really is. 

“Indeed." Aziraphale beams, unashamedly pleased at Crowley's positive impression. "I’ve met the cook and he’s just brilliant, has trained under some really big names. The staff are just wonderful too.” 

“Good food, good service. I guess one doesn’t need more right?" Crowley says, pushing down his glasses to risk a look around the room. “Hmm," he adds, after a moment, taking the lenses off and folding them over the table “good lighting too." 

Aziraphale’s hands meet over the table top, fingers entwined. 

“So I guessed right.” He fumbles, a bit of a nervous edge to it, side glancing the glasses. “I thought you probably had some sensibility, from what I gathered from our previous encounters, but didn’t want to assume." 

Crowley eyelids lower, he shakes his head. 

“It’s alright, you’re on the money." He shrugs. "They are prescription, yeah." Is not a sore topic, is just so natural now that unless someone brings it up he doesn't think about commenting on it. “I've grown used to having them on most of the time, too many bright lights everywhere." 

“It’s a shame," Aziraphale says, before he can think better of it “they are such a pretty colour to be hidden." 

Crowley’s eyes locks onto Aziraphale’s, his heart falters. 

_This guy’s_ _gon'_ _kill him dead._

And as one would expect, the waiter shows up. 

Blimey. 

“Oh shit, I didn’t actually-" Crowley hadn’t even opened the menu yet. _Wake up you, wake up._

“If you don’t mind," his date interrupts (his date!), palm open, inviting "I could order for us both?" Aziraphale proposes. Crowley notices he hadn’t reached for his menu either, the same resting untouched, to the side. 

_Well then, why not._

“Yeah, sure.” He’s having operational problems anyways. “You probably know what’s best." 

The blond nods, turning to place their order. Neatly choosing the courses, hands gesticulating gracefully. 

“I know you are driving,” he directs at Crowley, who blinks, momentarily disoriented. He had been following those hands (someone else had a manicure, he can tell) and not at all paying attention to the conversation. “-but maybe you could join me on just the one glass? They just have this red that hasn’t been available for a while. It would be a loss not to take the chance now." 

Looking at his balmy smile, Crowley wants to say _'_ _you_ _look_ _so_ _beautiful_ _I_ _forget_ _everything_ _else_ ' and ' _please_ _sstaph_ _you_ _make me go_ _dumb_ ' but instead he rasps a _'_ _Course._ _Just_ _the_ _one_ _glass_ _should_ _be_ _fine._ ' without sounding like a squeaky mouse. 

It’s a pass. 

_God is playing tricks with him, recently._

Aziraphale’s upper body wriggles- _how_ _does_ _he_ _do_ _that_ _?_ _That_ _is_ _not_ _good_ _for_ _Crowley’s_ _heart_ _-_ as he relays his choice to the server, and the guy promptly departures after noting things down. 

“You’re in for a treat! Hopefully you will enjoy it." 

And boy, did he _enjoy_ _._

Aziraphale's moans are lethal. 

_Lethal_ _._

Crowley almost had an out of body experience- and at some critical moment- feared he was going to pass out. It was the bookshop incident all over again, except the bit where Aziraphale bites the croissant was a scene on loop. 

It hurt, but the reward was too much to pass on. 

_The noises,_ ghk, _those noises._ Someone fan him, Crowley won't be able to forget those even if he tried, and he wouldn't dare to. 

_Thank_ _you_ _almighty_ _, for_ _this_ _glorious_ _gift_ _, I_ _will_ _never_ _doubt_ _you_ _again_ _._

The food was deserving of all the praise Aziraphale raved over them. From the creamy soup with the crunchy bread to the confit duck and the delicious bites he was offered from Aziraphale’s own meal – he wasn’t one to eat more than his own share but how could he refuse when Aziraphale held out a spoon? I mean _how could he_ \- and the _looks_. 

The looks he would get when he went to take the bite- _lethal, absolutely murderous_ \- Crowley would not turn down a treat willingly offered.

 _Thank you, see you in hell._

It was _bliss._

Aziraphale talked about his translating work, and how the shop had been in his family since the start _‘a bit unorthodox, to keep a mother’s last name, but I guess they wanted the tradition to hold'_. He ranted about his book collection and about how he would get customers trying to buy them off ‘ _but wasn’t that the whole point?_ ' and Crowley had to learn that ' _is not how it works, really_ ' and he told Aziraphale about how he and Anathema met, and about how he started tattooing ' _Is like being a painter but your art has legs and a heartbeat'_ and them Aziraphale told him how he got his custom aid ‘ _saw it by chance and it was just so exotic and the lady at the counter said it would be okay if he wanted to try it for just a moment please’_ ** _._ **

The food is great, the company marvellous, and so was that wine he asked for a bottle to take home later. 

Now is dessert time, and even though Aziraphale has been savouring the perfect looking chocolate soufflé in front of him, he can’t stop glancing longingly at Crowley’s untouched slice of _Tarte Tatin_ , cream melting in a little pool at the bottom. 

“Tell you what,” Crowley tempts, an infectious grin plastered on his face “I will trade my dessert for that story- the one about sneaking out in France." 

Aziraphale considers, neat front teeth taking hold of the supple flesh of this bottom lip. Time slows down- or Aziraphale just stops moving- and for a second Crowley forgets everything. 

He’s whipped back to the present by the angel’s voice. 

“Alright." He concedes, tiny spoon dipping into the soufflé to scoop another bite. “I was there for a consult, for an auction house. Stressful business, if I may be honest, but necessary work nonetheless." He recounts, expression a bit torn between inconvenienced and resign. "There is to say, I took to partaking in wine or scotch, on amenable evenings. Just to take the edge off, you understand." Crowley nods, he shares the sentiment. 

"And I can quite hold my liquor in all honesty- well, most of the time anyways- but, okay, this little pub-” and the way he pronounces _little_ gets Crowley wondering how many 'little holes in the wall' Aziraphale has been acquainted with during his life “-had this rich locally brewed wine, very distinct, really good wine, and I, uh, I might have had a few- a few glasses too many...” 

Blue eyes flick nervously, another spoon of chocolate comes, and the slow chewing seems to have a tremendous calming effect, as he keeps going. 

One of Crowley’s eyebrows hitches up. Absorbed. 

“Anyways, I _may_ have been a bit more than tipsy and _may_ have started an argument over the revolution and It _may_ have become a bit heated up and _the police might have been involved and I might have run away and_ -" 

“You _whot_." 

“It wasn’t an actual fight! No one got hurt from what I remember." He hurries to reassure.

We have to inform, that’s _not_ what got Crowley’s eyes this wide. _What's it with people not addressing the real issues here?_

“I even tried to hand back the handcuffs next morning but it was a bit of a complicated affair-" 

“Handcuffs? How the hell did you-" 

“I didn’t notice until I woke up-" 

“How could you not?!" Crowley’s voice is high pitched now, bewildered. 

“It was just one hand- it doesn’t matter, I just lockpicked it off-" 

“You lock- oh God, this is, this-" With a hand scrapping to cup around his mouth, Crowley howled with laughter. 

Aziraphale is red with mixed emotions but he also relents and after a short moment, joins the laugh, in a more subsided manner, trying to be respectful of the other dinners. Not that they have noticed, all involved in their own conversations. 

When Crowley feels steady enough to regain control of his limbs, long fingers slowly slide the small desert dish to Aziraphale’s side of the table. 

“You can have all my deserts from now on, Angel." He chuckles, elated. Eyes shiny and smile so wide his cheeks will hurt for a while after this, a reminder Crowley will cherish for as long as it lasts- and even after it’s gone too. 

Aziraphale says nothing, but the coy tilt of his lips doesn’t abate even after the last forkful of tart and cream is scrapped off the plate. 

\--- 

Back at Soho, Crowley walks Aziraphale to the door. 

“-and that’s how I got the Bentley. Bastard didn’t know how to treasure her. I got the car and Anathema got her revenge- win-win situation, we’re not complaining." 

“That was amazingly clever of you two." Aziraphale chuckles, expression light. 

Crowley shrugs, gives him a conspiratory wink. 

“Everyone has their own share of wicked tales." 

“That I can’t deny." The blond bickers back, grin as wide as anything. 

They stop at the doorstep their night started on, some five or so hours earlier. A wonderful lightness hanging in the otherwise brisk evening. 

When their eyes meet, is like being spellbound, time once again seems to not work around them. It feels like it could be just the two of them, under this night sky, under the moonlight. 

But why have the one moment if they can have many more?

“I had the most wonderful time, Crowley." And that’s the honest truth, pure and simple. 

“Me too."And that’s the truth for him too. 

“I would-" 

“We could-" 

They both chuckle, Crowley a bit embarrassed and Aziraphale more amused than anything. The date was perfect, and now Crowley is looking at Aziraphale, that ridiculously beautiful smile of his plastered on his face and Crowley can't not fall for this _angel_ \- I mean is everyone else _out of their fucking minds_ look at this _stunning, glorious masterpiece_ \- and this is it, he needs more and he’s doomed. 

_You're all I wanna see,_ it rings in Crowley's mind. A certain thing, like the motion of the ocean and the spectacular sight from a mountaintop. And for now he might not know what comes ahead, but he knows this. 

So he steps up, close. Face slowly turning down at an easy- gentle- angle, inches from that soft, crinkled skin. Aziraphale smells like dry ink, of oranges and sugar and the crisp autumn breeze. 

He tastes like apples and caramel, with a hint of cocoa. 

Crowley blinks his eyes open, an eternity later- _too soon_ \- and Aziraphale’s follow suit. 

“I want to see you again." Crowley states.

It sounds, to Crowley’s ears, like too faint of a whisper for the weight it carries. _You're all I wanna see._ Is faint, but strong and steady, and Aziraphale seems to have heard it all the same. 

Blue eyes reflect his own, like the calm surface of a lake. Waters deep, but clear. 

At Crowley’s cheek, his hands are as soft as he imagined they would be. 

“You will." He sighs. _Strong, steady._

"Now Kiss me again." 

\--- 

After the deal is sealed, with a kiss, a lingering goodbye and a promised ‘ _see you again, soon',_ Crowley makes the surreal drive back to his Mayfair apartment, high wired. 

He bursts through the door, kicks his shoes off- running to his office, hands itching- lips _tingling_. He couldn’t think, _he couldn’t think_ \- He yanks drawers open, spilling materials all over his work table- he had to get some of this out or he would explode. 

Luckily, he knew a way, and it didn’t involve using much of his brain. All he needed was muscle memory. 

That night under the yellowed shine of an old lightbulb and the watchful hovering moon, he played with shades for hours, trying to get close. Heavy paper growing tender with every applied thought, the tainted tip of pencils deconstructing themselves to be remodelled- _reborn_ \- to gain life and carry feelings, gaining dimension, power- _fingers dancing and body bursting-_ all those new indescribable flames leaking out– gaining direction. 

He poured it out and kept doing it and kept _going and going_ and only stopped when the burning of his joints grew to the point they would refuse to move. When fingers ached, skin coarse from brushing the fine residual dust- collecting their leftovers, reallocating colours both intentionally and not- his eyes felt dry and his mind sluggish from the workout. 

He felt raw and blissed out, exhausted but like he had just barely reached the first layer of the itch. Shaking with afterimages of what his hands created, most of if just a blur of quick fast transference from core to fingertips- when he let it slip, when he let it go then, there was no consciousness, no premeditated planning- just a weird feeling of being a conductor of things his mind didn’t know how to express but his body tried to make up for it. 

Crowley felt open and fragmented- as when something had to be disassembled for its stability sake, a container filled to the brim, ready to collapse, straining at its seams- he had crafted new vessels to carry a part of this newfound thing, this overwhelming emotion. And even after such, when he closed his eyes and succumbed to exhaustion, he could still see remnants of it all. 

Like new constellation coming to be, like something exploded. 

Stained everything a magnificent shade of blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about the clothes is, well, just my take on this Crowley. This boy has gone through bad shit, as in he didn't think much of himself for a while and now, around his forties, he's on a good place and he doesn't want to fall back on being the kind of person he was. This Crowley has fought his demons and won, he just has to remind himself of it occasionally.
> 
> Anyways! Crowley is really creative, and an artist, so he expresses himself through art- so what if he just came back home and drew a dozen portraits of whatever Aziraphale woke up on him? He has been holding back for days now, he needed to let it out.
> 
> Aziraphale is a flirty bastard.
> 
> See ya'll in a few days.


	6. The colours of the seasons, the colours of you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, Aziraphale basks in the uplifting glee of an early rising after a most pleasant night. Somehow the autumn morning feels less chilly, the usual flavorful sip of his cocoa a tad bit sweeter. Unconsciously, he carries himself with lighter steps, an ease lopsided tilt to his lips, a low hum of a tune at the back of his tongue. 
> 
> _I want to see you again._
> 
> _So do I._ A glimpse of golden eyes, the shimmer of fiery hair by the lamplight. _So do I._
> 
> _You will._
> 
> Aziraphale takes another sip of his drink, feels warmed over. It’s a quiet, comfortable Monday. 
> 
> It doesn’t last long though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gone forever. Jessuss. Ya'll brought me to life. Thanks. I so want to get further into this tale. I WANT THE FLUFF. I have it, is written, is waiting to be read.  
> I want the fluff so why must angst follow me???!?
> 
> Mind the added tags yeah?

Crowley managed to scrape up about four hours of sleep. 

His hair is a tangled mess, and he has barely made it to his bed. There are charcoal stains on his fingertips and smudged blue splashes in his silk shirt. 

He wobbles down the corridor, bones aching in protest over his lousy sleeping posture. His office door is wide open- light still on. 

There is paper everywhere, his toes slightly resting over a sheet laying lost by the door. There are coloured pencils scattered on the floor, and open tubes of paint in his desk- with a look Crowley knows from experience that he will regret not soaking those brushes overnight. 

He stops at the door frame, stands there for a frozen moment. 

Breathes in the smell of salty water and of unreachable heights, of light and citrusy cologne. Yesterday flashes with snippets of blushing skin and the air rings with soft laughter. 

Tastes like leftover caramel and the tang of red wine. 

Crowley grins. 

He feels _amazing_. 

He bypasses the kitchen, snags one of his misting bottles and proceeds to water his plants, quickly but efficiently. The leaves are shinning with moisture, the outside sunlight dying the whole room with a delicate orange hue. 

Crowley showers, dresses up with a distinct giddiness that makes the air smell like fresh herbal tea and honey. 

It would feel silly, a decade back, to be this happy over- over anything as simple as a night out. But current Crowley couldn’t care less- he's glowing, he’s content and blissful with thousand tiny joyous sensations- and he lets their warmth course through his limbs, travel in his bloodstream. 

He leaves early, knowing that even with the detour he will make it to Soho way before the shop has to open, with enough time to spare to have coffee with a probably curious and anxious Anathema. 

Like the dazed whipped fool that he is, Crowley can’t wait. 

But first- 

He needs to stop somewhere. 

\--- 

Mondays are predictable tiresome affairs, in general, to any working class person. Mondays are too far away from the next weekend, a too soon call back to the routine of an eight-to-five job, of a necessary early morning and a duty to fulfil. 

But Mondays are uncharacteristic unpredictable when it comes to a particular Bookshop. It could be open as early as six, or as late as two in the afternoon- you could get in and stay for hours or be shunned out in a matter of minutes- as the shop was to be open for a short period of time only, or about to close sporadically a handful of times a day without previous warning.

Or it could, as well, simply not open at all. 

At A. Z. Fell & Co. Antiquaries and old Books, they are a Pandora Box of possibilities, Mondays. 

But it doesn’t mean any other days aren’t about the same. 

Aziraphale would feel a bit guilty for having such an inconstant schedule, except he didn’t, really, believe it was such a relevant inconvenience to anyone. It didn’t intervene with his work and he had been managing it the same way since he took over more than twenty years ago without _huge_ incidents. That was all that mattered.

Unbeknownst to him (or not) he had gained a certain reputation in Soho- the community had always been welcoming of peculiar businesses, and that bookshop had been there for long enough to see the neighbourhood become what it was today- and the peculiarities of a whimsical Bookshop owner which was also a really soft-spoken gay man was one of the easiest things to grown used to, especially if compared to other shops in the area. 

A. Z. Fell & Co. wasn't the weirdest cryptic thing going around, and whatever its owner decided to do, no one batted an eye anymore.

Including the most _humorous_ antics regarding how almost impossible it was to get the guy to sell anything. Aziraphale wouldn’t actually refuse most of the time- just be really selective on what to take notice of, and whom. 

All harmless play, mind you; not his fault if keeping your smile on point for _a bit_ longer than appropriate and adding a little tilt of his head to the motion makes some people just give up on forcing the issue. 

It serves him well, this routine. If something as unpredictable and reliant on daily whimsical decisions could ever be described as a ‘routine’. 

Today, Aziraphale basks in the uplifting glee of an early rising after a most pleasant night. Somehow the autumn morning feels less chilly, the usual flavorful sip of his cocoa a tad bit sweeter. Unconsciously, he carries himself with lighter steps, an ease lopsided tilt to his lips, a low hum of a tune at the back of his tongue. 

_I want to see you again._

_So_ _do I._ A glimpse of golden eyes, the shimmer of fiery hair by the lamplight. _So_ _do I_. 

_You will._

Aziraphale takes another sip of his drink, feels warmed over. It’s a quiet, comfortable Monday. 

It doesn’t last long though. 

_“Aziraphale."_ Gabriel enunciates, breaking the comfortable mood of the backroom- clear, and with enough power to have it ring in the enclosed space. 

The blonde's head turns sharply. Body going taunt. 

Oh. _Gabriel._

Deep into his belly- a tiny prickle- a small pang, settles. Aziraphale brushes it off. _What a surprise,_ he wants to say. But it isn’t. Not like this. 

Aziraphale’s smile creaks and wither, like a crisp dry leaf snapping off a yellowing branch. The silence that reigns is just as dry. He’s not humming anymore. 

One would expect that someone like Gabriel would favor peacocking his way around, catching the attention of all, always in the spotlight, always noticed, appraised- and they wouldn’t be wrong.

Gabriel was all about standing out, like a pillar of divine power. 

That is, unless he had other plans. 

Having spent most of his young days sharing a common home with his cousin, Gabriel was well aware of Aziraphale’s antics and sensibilities. He had cultivated a flair for exploiting people’s weak spots and loved to jab a figurative finger- or sometimes a _figurative fist_ \- at unsuspecting bellies. 

Maybe because of it he had developed the ugliest habit of showing up on Aziraphale’s right side- quietly, with the grace of a wild feline- delighted with the prospect of pouncing on unaware prey. That unsavory trick isn’t infallible but thorough the years has bared the sought results enough times to be regarded as a successful enterprise, in his judgement. 

It became sort of their thing. Or as he had called it one time- their _game._ Gabriel goes out of his way to surprise Aziraphale, to sneak up on him in parties, family meetings, in the street- in his own home. 

In short terms, Gabriel takes an unmeasurable amount of joy in catching him unawares. 

In even shorter terms, he’s a _major_ _prick_. 

At the front entrance, the bell over the door sits frozen, purposely untouched.

“Oh. Gabriel." Aziraphale says then. After what might have been a too long pause to feel even remotely natural. Is not the most honest reaction, but is honest enough. 

The pang throbs. 

Gabriel looks as proper and imposing as always. The flair of one who has been brought to know nothing but their own reality and self-worth. Methodically pressed suit, squared up shoulders- oozing that kind of presence that just expects respect, indisputable subordination. He poises, he looms, with the distinguished air of sanctimonious right. 

A heavy hand- heavier words. 

The flash of white, _sharp_ teeth. 

“Still reading books, I see." 

Like the other times, the broad man makes it sound like that’s all Aziraphale does. As if _‘reading books’_ summarizes all the work de does as a translator, as a restaurateur, handling precious old scripts with gloved hands- transcripting from ancient Hebrew, Arabic, Greek and English- making history and knowledge more accessible to the modern world. How dedicated he is to this, to his contribution to humanity, to keeping history _alive_. 

Gabriel _knows-_ but dismisses it, or he just doesn’t care enough to remember. Aziraphale doesn’t know which one stings more. 

The blond doesn’t address the comment. The more affected he shows, the deeper Gabriel will dig the blade in. 

Aziraphale aches. 

“For what do I own your visit? I hope all is well with the family?" He knows the answer for the first, he doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer for the later. 

“You would know if you kept in contact." 

Both of them know that’s not exactly accurate, but they leave it be. Gabriel doesn’t give him an opening to contradict anyways. Big hands reach for a bookmarked tome resting in the coffee table, turning it side to side, thick fingers running through pages followed by eyes devoid of any interest. 

The bright navy blue strip of silk slides easily, dropping to the floor without sound. 

Aziraphale doubts Gabriel even noticed, the next moment he’s already stepped on it, as he slowly, confidently, walks further into the room. His movements are thoughtless, of one who knows their way around, the pure image of an absentminded handler. 

Surely, not purposeful. No harm done. 

As it is, Aziraphale remembers the page number. 

As he said, no harm done. 

The book snaps close, with a loud bang. Aziraphale’s neck protests when with a sharp twist his attention goes back to Gabriel. He hadn’t even noticed his mind had started drifting. 

Gabriel drops the book in the sofa by the window sill, done with whatever pretence brought him to grab it in the first place. He seems to just have noticed Aziraphale is barefoot- his slight sneer and his head shaking on what looks, feels and unsubtly screams disappointment. 

As if on command, blue coloured toes curl- self-conscious, reproached. 

He hasn’t got his aid either. 

Gabriel has noticed that too. 

Broad shoulders and a back braced by interlocked fists is all Aziraphale sees as Gabriel turns to face the window. 

Face away from him. 

Aziraphale, with heavy legs and twitching hands, obligingly moves closer. 

It feels like losing. 

He swallows the feeling back. The well know, bitter taste of it. 

“-worry about you.” 

It sticks to his gums. 

“ -how it looks like from the outside, you must understand. Last thing we know it will be said we are neglecting you.” 

Leftover cocoa traces going sour. 

“Surely you could do with an a-" 

He just wants this to end. 

“I appreciate the thought,” Aziraphale interrupts, sounding way more controlled than he actually feels. “-but I assure you I am doing well." 

"Obviously you have considered that there is improvement to be achieved." Gabriel follows, without hesitation. 

“I am not inconvenienced in the slightest" Aziraphale chokes out. Soft, too soft. 

_He can smell your weakness._

A handful of seconds of uncomfortable silence as Gabriel turns slowly, back straight, eyebrow raised. 

Lilac eyes wander pointedly. 

_Judging._

Aziraphale manages to not physically recoil under his stare. 

“...Sure.” 

The inside of his mouth stings. The taste of iron. 

“All we want is to make sure you won’t... fall short." Gabriel doesn’t feel like there is any need to directly convey the fact Aziraphale is far from living in what he would consider a 'dignified' way. He knows anyways. He would know how his refuse is an inconvenience to Gabriel. He knows and yet he seems to know no better. 

Aziraphale’'s family is full of bad communicators. But they still manage to drive their point across just fine. 

“I applaud your effort, Aziraphale-” Gabriel drawls, with a cocked eyebrow and patronizing smile so wide it almost splits his face in half “-and it is _admirable_ that you’ve come to last this long on your own-” as if this is nothing more than a magic trick, that stuns the simple-minded masses but for those aware of the truth behind it, is just theatrics, a poor show of deception “-there is no merit in delaying the inevitable.” 

Aziraphale manages to keep a pleasant posture, even when his chest feels tight and the skin around his knuckles is stretched white, palms damp with cold sweat. 

“That’s very thoughtful, but I assure you there is no need to worry." 

Gabriel doesn’t roll his eyes- but he drops the smile and huffs with thinly veiled annoyance. 

“You should work on showing us so, then.” He cuts. Body language a tell of how much he thinks Aziraphale’s petulance will take him nowhere but is still willing to entertain him by letting him realize by himself the errors of his ways. 

_You will come to realize we know better than you._

“Soon enough I’m sure you will see what we meant." 

When he leaves, this time, the door-bell rings. 

At the back of the shop, Aziraphale shivers. His cocoa has gone deadly cold. 

The autumn morning does feels kind of chilly after all. 

\--- 

“You’re so whipped.” Says Anathema for the tenth time in the span of twenty minutes. 

She cracked a handful in his retelling of the date, gave it a break by cooing and laughing over his embarrassed face when she inquired about the tea set that _magically_ appeared in the backroom. Said it once again when she noticed the blue flowers and gold wings around the cups, once again when she notices the kettle he got with it, and once more when she finds a tiny jar with sugar at the table, and a small carton of cream in the fridge. 

And she repeats it when she sees the honey, and the package with lemon slices, because ‘ _he knows some people have it with tea_ ’ and well ‘ _with some kind of teas yes but not all’_ and her jaw drops for a second when she opens the cabinet door for some grinded coffee and sees herself face to face with boxes upon boxes of assorted tea flavors. When she recovers from the shock, she follows with an amused head shake. 

“You’re so, so whipped." 

Crowley lets out a muffled growl over his concealed face. Hands doing little to hide the way a flush works up over his cheekbones, his ears and down his neck. 

He wants to protest and say he got carried away and the lady that worked the tea shop got him a bit overwhelmed- but he knows Anathema would delight in it. 

So he ignores her and grabs for a biscuit. Nibbling on the small treat. 

Anathema stares at it. Snorts. 

Crowley feels his face growing hot. Freckles blending in.

“Shut up."

It sounds like a whine.

She waves and leaves him in the room to recover.

He's grateful, but recognizes is useless.

Crowley takes one of the tea cups, cradles it gently. Runs his fingers over every petal, every feather. Thinks about the bookseller, his hands, his voice. The heat of his skin.

_Why is it you're all I wanna see?_

He knows he's doomed.

And in all honesty, he doesn't mind it one bit.

\--- 

Aziraphale is in a daze. 

He doesn't know exactly what he expects to gain with a visit. The blond feels a bit out of sorts and for some reason his feet drag him outside, a few meters to the right, to a glossy door framed by large windows. His breath fogs the glass a little, right over the cursive scriptions. His right hand turns, has in its grip a sturdy brass knob.

He doesn't know what he expects to achieve, but he does of course understand what brings him there.

Whom, to be exact.

The door gives in, no sound to announce his arrival.

Besides this one.

"Mr. Fell!" Mrs Device greets. Moving quickly to meet him halfway in, grinning wide. "Came for a bit more of Mr. Fool I assume?"

"Pardon?" He questions, but she only chuckles in answer, a delicate hand patting his shoulder, like one would an old friend.

"I feel like I should be jealous," She starts, leaning closer to whisper conspiciously. "-but I also got mine wrapped around my finger so can't really complain right?" She clearly sounds amused, but in a way that feels friendly, caring.

He fights the will to blush, and her mood is contagious, so Aziraphale joins in.

"I guess this means we are quite afortunate then?"

"You bet. Romantics, those poor sods."

Is that so? Aziraphale considers, memories of the last few days come fort. He nods, curls bouncing. It does sound right.

Anathema keeps grinning.

"Hey, I forgot to ask, do you know a way to get paint out of-"

He looks ahead, blue seeking- And as easy as that, Aziraphale knows.

\---

He's here. Crowley's brain suplies. His heart picks up, echoes the message.

Stars in his eyes, Crowley looks at Aziraphale. 

_The day looks brighter with you here._ He thinks. 

“Aziraphale.” He says instead. 

Somehow it means the same. 

“Tea?” He asks, excitement and something else riding the edges of thin lips. 

Yellow and red, the colours of soon to be bare trees, of passing time and the approaching dawn. Of ethereal things. 

The colour of the season. 

Crowley stares, drying leaves. 

A coppery lock falls lose from behind an ear, the sunset. 

_His_ colours. 

Autumn warms up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Aziraphale 'I am self-conscious of my disability but am also a bastard at heart' play the 'pardon I can't hear you' card with potential undesired customers?
> 
> Hell yes.
> 
> Is Gabriel a piece of shit? Do I loathe him in this fic? Do I get really angry at him all the time?
> 
> I don't even know how he got out this chapter. It wasn't planned.
> 
> Aziraphale's family is shite. The fact that they all believe he is incapable of taking care of himself makes me want to rage. Is not like they actually have any power over him- besides the emotional one that is.  
> He deflects, he avoids- but for how long the psychological hold they have over will play the part in keeping him trapped to them?  
> He's longing for freedom, but he doesn't know how that actually feels like.
> 
> Yet.  
> He will get there.


End file.
